


Blame It On Me

by coffeeandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A few AU characters, AU Adam Milligan, AU Benny Lafitte, Angelic Grace, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Happy Ending, Forced Prostitution, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mainly Canon!Verse, Men of Letters Bunker, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Protective Dean Winchester, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, Suicidal Castiel, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9897782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Castiel has left the bunker and is trying to build a life for himself, alone, and is failing. He moves from one homeless camp to the next, struggling to find his place in the world and feeling more unwanted as every day passes. He never meets April, and with no form of identification to prove who he is, he never gets offered a job at the Gas n Sip.Eventually, he falls in with the wrong crowd and his life takes a sudden, violent downward spiral. After months of searching, Dean and Sam manage to find him and bring him home, but at what cost?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags; this is dark from the word go.

**February**

Dean counts slowly, the gun steady in his hand and his finger covering the trigger. They have already dispatched two men on the floor below, and Dean is ready for more. The anger flowing in his veins is overpowering, making every muscle wind tight, and he can barely see straight. That rage is laced with fear, and although it should be clouding his judgment Dean feels a dangerous stillness settle over him as he takes a breath. Sam is just behind him in the same stance but somehow still as calm and collected as always: both of them tense up as Dean counts out loud, ready for whatever might greet them behind the door.

“One…Two…”

On ‘three’ Dean’s foot comes up as meets the door, just below the handle and right on the lock. The door slams inwards, splintering, and Dean and Sam are in the room and covering each other before the noise has even died down. It's a dingy hotel room, top floor but one, filthy and smelling of cheap cologne and alcohol. A man is crouching over the bed, skinny and dirty-haired, and Dean doesn't heed Sam’s warning shout: he discharges three rounds into the guy’s back before he has a chance to turn around properly. He collapses backwards onto the floor, his head cracking against the corner of the night stand and strands of greying hair instantly mat with blood, but it doesn't matter: he's dead before he hits the ground. Dean does a quick sweep of the room to ensure they're alone; they are, but he doubts it will be for very long. The shots will have drawn plenty of attention, and Dean knows they only have a couple of minutes, if that, to get the hell out of there.

Sam kneels to check the pulse of the dead guy sprawled on the floor to confirm his life is over, and Dean approaches a prone figure lying on the bed in the corner of the room, stowing his gun in the back of his jeans and trying to stop his hands from shaking. The single bed has been shoved against the wall, the covers stripped away, and the person lying unconscious on it is ghostly pale and ashen, clearly malnourished, and his skin is marked with a variety of nasty injuries. The adrenaline from the kill has drained out of Dean, and the sight before him draws a wave of nausea up so suddenly that he has to count to ten before kneeling down and reaching for the limp hand resting on the pillow, flung out towards him as though reaching for something. Or someone.

His angel, Castiel, lies sprawled on his back, head turned away to the wall, stripped naked apart from the filthy sheet covering his pelvis and the top of his thighs. Dark bruises litter the skin of his collarbones and throat, and the arm tossed out towards Dean is shackled to the headboard with a handcuff, a cuff which is cutting painfully into his skin leaving red raw welts and scrapes. Track marks crawl up his inner forearm, one of them fresh and bloody, and a quick glance at the nightstand reveals a small pile of empty syringes and dirty tissues. The handcuff and the injuries to Cas' body tell a stark and distressing story: whatever he's been drugged with, it has been done against his will - multiple times judging by the needle-stick marks to his arm - and the thought of someone holding the angel down and harming him is something Dean just cannot stomach.

Dean remembers his angel as strongly built and ruggedly handsome, artfully messy hair and two-day old stubble. This Castiel is a shadow of his former self: whippet-thin, and his hair is lank and almost as long as Sam's, covering his eyes and most of his face. Cas is unconscious, and Dean thinks it's probably a blessing. He takes the fallen angel’s other hand then cups his jaw, turning Castiel’s face towards him. Cas’ blue eyes are closed, lashes resting on hollowed, ashen cheeks, and Dean panics for a second that he isn't breathing. But then Cas stirs, his eyes crack open and they're glassy and unfocused with whatever he's been injected with, and Dean holds back a wave of tears as he brushes the angel’s hair back from his face. Before he can speak, Castiel focuses on him with some effort and his cracked lips curve into the ghost of a smile, one that isn't strong enough to wipe away the sadness in his eyes.

“You look like him…”

Cas’ voice is cracked, raw, and barely audible. He brings his unshacked hand up to Dean’s face, brushing his cheek with his knuckles, and Dean is overcome by a wave of sadness as he sees tears in Castiel’s glazed eyes. For a second, he doesn’t understand who Cas is talking about. Who does he look like? Then the realisation that Cas doesn't really recognise him hits him like a freight train and Dean's breath sticks in his throat. The blue eyes are looking through him rather than at him: the hundred-yard stare and he swallows, fighting tears. He takes Cas’ hand in both of his, barely aware of Sam approaching behind him.

“Cas…”

“You look so much like him…”

Castiel’s eyes are closing again, and Dean shakes him gently. He's clearly high on something and more likely than not has been given too much of whatever it is, to keep him pliant and submissive. Dean’s stomach turns and he almost vomits all over the angel. Castiel doesn't seem to realise that it's Dean kneeling beside him. Sam sits down on the edge of the bed next to Cas’ head and gets to work on the cuff.

“Cas, its us. It's me, Sam, and…”

“You look like Dean…” the hunter’s name spills from Castiel’s lips as he passes out and Dean has to steel himself against a wave of tears. This isn't right; this should never have happened. When he told Cas to leave, he never expected…

"Dean, we have to go. Now."

Sam's eyes dart to the door just as the cuff comes loose and Cas' limp hand falls to the bed; they can both hear shouting coming from upstairs and the sound of feet pounding on the ceiling above them. Dean quickly shrugs off his jacket and overshirt and, with Sam's help, haul the fallen angel into a sitting position and Dean shoves one arm then the other into the sleeves and tries to pull the clothing around Cas as much as possible. The angel's head lolls against Sam's shoulder, his whole body slack and lifeless, and Dean shudders at the cold sweat coating his skin. He manoeuvres Cas with some difficulty towards the edge of the bed, wraps the dirty sheet around him to protect his modesty - it's all he has to work with - and lifts Cas bodily into his arms. Sam is at the door, covering the hallway as Dean carries Cas towards the stairs, and he hears shots fired and the sounds of shouting, boots hammering on stairs, and he breaks into an awkward, heavy jog with his angel held close to his chest. Cas is completely out, head falling back in Dean’s arms to expose his bruised neck and Dean doesn’t have time to check if the cuts and abrasions are from hands, restraints, or teeth. He needs to get Cas out of here, needs to get him safe, needs to get him home; then they can start on helping him heal.

Sam crashes through the fire escape and Dean follows, stumbling and almost dropping Cas. A bullet splinters the wooden doorframe just by his head, and he makes it to the Impala just as Sam hauls the door open and turns to return fire. The cover gives Dean enough time to lie Cas down on the backseat, drag the sheet up and over him, and turn his head to the side in case he vomits. He doesn’t know what drugs are pulsing through Castiel’s veins, but knows that the sudden motion of the car is likely to cause the angel some discomfort.

He and Sam throw themselves into the front seat, the engine kicks in, and with a shriek of rubber on concrete the Impala pulls away from the curb as armed men spill out of the hotel, firing shots at the car and screaming obscenities at them as Dean shoves a hand out of the window and holds a finger in the air. Fuck them. Fuck them, and what they’ve done to his angel. They are lucky to be alive - for now. Dean will be back to finish the job, but right now his angel needs him and he can focus on nothing but the road home.

**June, 8 months earlier.**

Castiel doesn't know what’s in the syringe, or quite what it will do to him apart from make him ‘feel so much better’, according to the persuasive guy who currently has his wrist in a vice-like grip and is staring at him with a lewd smile. All he knows is that it fucking hurts. He whines and tries to wriggle away, his gasps turning to an outright cry as pain and pressure spreads down his arm, but he's held in a death grip and weeks of little sleep and even less food have drained his energy and his will. The man in front of him holds him still, and behind him the guy pressed up against his back wraps his arms a little tighter around Castiel’s waist and leans forward to whisper in his ear.

"Shh, pretty, I know it hurts but it will feel so good, just give it a minute. You’ll forget it all: forget your pain, forget what led you to this place, and it will all be OK again.”

The voice is gravelly, but not in the sensual way that Dean’s is. It’s low, menacing, and holds an unspoken threat that Cas shouldn’t struggle. That if he does, things will get inevitably worse for him.

Cas squirms. Everything about this situation feels wrong, and he's fighting a desperate urge to start screaming and not stop. Allowing someone to inject a foreign substance into his veins had been a ridiculous idea, one born of despair and the consuming need to forget; he casts about for the logic that had coaxed him into allowing this, finding it no longer accessible.

He’s getting used to being hungry, starving, and spends most of his nights curled up in a corner, fighting stomach cramps and trying not to cry. When had he become so weak? The people in the homeless camps he’s becoming so used to seem to be handling it much better than him; and he’s lived a thousand lifetimes already, surely he should be more resilient. But hunger, thirst, fatigue and the ache in his body from sleeping rough are taking their toll, and Castiel is becoming desperate. He longs to return to Dean, to the safety of the bunker where he had food, a place to sleep, and a solid door that locked him safely away from the world. But Dean’s blunt request had left no room for argument, and Castiel hadn’t even tried. It had hurt too much, being asked to leave when he had only just arrived. He had thought he was home, that the boys were happy to see him. He now felt foolish for feeling what he now recognised as joy, an emotion he’s sure he will never be able to find again. His sadness, despair and heart-wrenching loneliness had all led to this moment, and Castiel is now convinced he’s made a chilling mistake.

The men had seemed kind at first. Welcoming. They had shared their water with Cas, hadn’t pressured him when he didn’t feel like talking much, and had generally left him to his own devices. It had been when they had opened bread, crisps and cans of cold soup that Cas’ hunger had got the better of him, and he had approached and all but begged them to share. The night had been warm, but Cas shivered anyway, humiliation dragging at him and making him feel lower than ever. He had been relieved when they smiled and moved up to make room for him; it made a change to feeling like nobody wanted him invading their space. It had seemed a little strange when they had willingly agreed to share their food, and the scrawnier of the two had given Cas a leering smile and offered him a ‘little extra’, something to make him feel good and help him sleep. Exhausted and emotional, Cas had agreed instantly; he was struggling to rest properly, fighting nightmares and unable to get comfortable enough to sleep the whole night through. He thought that something to aid him might be just what he needed, and the men certanly seemed genuine enough. Now, as he’s held tightly by a man twice his size and strength and another man is holding a syringe to his arm, the needle piercing his skin and an unnamed substance sinking into his veins, he finally knows what it is to feel panic.

Just as he’s about to scream, to try and properly jerk away from the men he is now convinced are out to do him harm, he feels a strange sensation wash over him: dizziness, followed by a wave of nausea so strong that Cas’ legs buckle, then the feeling of falling from a great height. The pain in his arm ebbs away to a dull ache, and he collapses back into the arms of the man behind him, who lowers him down to the ground of the filthy alley they are hidden in. Nearby, people walk past smiling, laughing, going about their daily lives and enjoying every moment, oblivious to the fallen angel and the hell he is descending into. He’s oblivious to it right now: barely conscious, his body jerking violently as he’s helplessly sick, unable to do anything to stop his jeans being undone and dragged down, powerless to fight back as his legs are pushed apart, but not far gone enough to be saved from the agony that pulses through him as he’s held down and violently, intimately assaulted.

When he comes to, he isn’t in the alleyway any more, and all he can smell is blood and vomit. He can’t see straight, can hear blurred, muffled voices, and can’t work out if he’s standing, sitting, or lying sprawled out somewhere. Someone lifts his arm and a sharp scratch stings the sensitive skin of his inner elbow. The pain returns, followed moments later by blissful, terrifying darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**February.**

  
“Sam?”

Dean nearly runs the car off the fucking road as a weak voice comes from the back seat of the Impala, murmuring his brother’s name. He twists, trying to see Cas, but Sam shoves him back with a gruff ‘eyes on the road’ and turns himself to check on the angel. Dean casts desperate glances at his brother, watching as he reaches behind him, and hears Castiel’s breath hitch in his chest.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s me. And Dean. We’re taking you home; everything is going to be fine.”

“Sam…” Cas’ voice is fading again, and Dean tries once more to look at his angel. Castiel’s face is turned away, towards the back seats, but his hand is clasped tightly in one of Sam’s. At least, Sam is gripping tight - Cas looks like he’s barely holding on at all. Dean tries to focus on the road, knowing his brother will tell him if he needs to pull over, if Cas needs attention, but struggling all the same. He wants nothing more than the three hour drive to the bunker to be over, and to have Castiel safe and warm inside. He should never, ever have asked him to leave…

“I hate these dreams,” Cas slurs, and tears prick Dean’s eyes. The angel thinks he’s dreaming, that the brothers haven’t really come for him, and that hurts. Cas must have known they would come, surely…

“Dean…Dean…” Cas keeps up a low litany of Dean’s name for a while as they drive, slipping in and out of consciousness, sometimes whispering it and sometimes calling out in distress - those are the times that the Impala nearly runs off the road as Dean clenches the wheel and tries to focus. Cas is drugged; out of his mind on whatever he's been given, and Dean just has to concentrate a little more to get them all home in one piece. To get his angel back where he belongs: in his arms and safe.

Eventually, the muted sounds from the back seat fade away, and Sam confirms that Castiel is unconscious again; passed out but still breathing and stable, and Dean heaves an inward sigh of relief. He couldn't take much more. He was seconds away from telling Sam to take the wheel, when his brother’s hand comes to rest lightly on his arm.

“He’ll be all right, Dean. It's Cas. He's with us now. Whatever happened to him…” Sam's voice falters. “Whatever happened, we’ll get him through it together. He isn't alone.”

“How do you know he’ll be all right?” Dean can't keep the emotion from his voice. “He's a fucking wreck, Sammy. Where do we start? We don't even know what he's lived through, so you can't begin to say…”

“Because he has to be,” Sam drops his hand and focused intently on his own fingers. “Because the alternative is…” The sentence tails off, unfinished, and Dean knows why. The alternative is just too frightening. “He just has to be OK.”

Dean says nothing, just stares blankly out at the road with unseeing eyes. Nothing about this feels quite real; he understands for a split second how Cas might be feeling. It's like a warped nightmare, finding his angel in such a state and knowing but not really knowing what has been done to him. The marks on his skin are too telling, combined with the filth that had spewed from the first man they had encountered in the hallway of the dirtbag hotel. The vermin had looked Dean up and down, sneered that he didn't think the angel would be his type, but when Dean pressed the knife edge into his throat deep enough to draw blood, the guy squawked that Castiel was on the seventh floor in the room furthest from the stairs. Before he could beg for his life, Dean drove the knife in to the hilt and felt no remorse at all as he started for the staircase. Sam had followed, not questioning Dean’s decision to kill the man who had aided Castiel’s abuse: he would have done exactly the same given the chance.

Sam knows about him and Cas. He confessed everything to his brother weeks ago, when the search for the angel was turning out to be more difficult than they had hoped and his fear that they would never find his angel was too consuming for him to bear alone. That, and he couldn't bring himself to lie to his brother any more. After everything that had gone on with Ezekiel, who turned out to be a rogue angel named Gadreel who vanished from Sam's body after killing Kevin, Dean couldn't face more lies, more deceit. Sam deserved to know, and to his credit his brother had been more than understanding. In fact, the only thing he didn't seem to really comprehend was why they weren't together properly, a couple, instead of the on-again-off-again intimacy they shared when the mood took them.

It has been going on for years, this thing with him and Cas. Dean casts back, trying to find a happy memory to fixate on while he drives, and settles on their first kiss. It hadn't been sweet, gentle, or anything in that spectrum. It had happened while they were fighting, while Cas had Dean against a wall down a dark alley and was shouting in his face about what he had given up for Dean, and how it had all been for nothing. Dean had tried to shove him away, but the angel had been too strong and, as their eyes had locked, electricity had sparked between them and suddenly his mouth was on Castiel's. The angel had balked, tried to push himself away from Dean, but the hunter hadn't let up, pulling Cas closer with an arm round his waist and the other sliding up to his neck. He had nudged at Cas to part his lips, and that's when the angel acquiesced to him and gripped Dean with more fervour than ever, kissing him back almost violently. It had been rough, heated, a clash of mouths and teeth and wandering hands, both of them battling for dominance. They had pulled apart a while later, panting and flushed with swollen, kiss-slick lips, and Dean had dragged the angel out of the alley towards his car. Their first time had been quick, dirty, and in the back of the Impala outside Dean's motel. As soon as they were finished, Castiel had fastened his clothing, opened the car door, and was gone before Dean could even come down from his high. They hadn't spoken a single word to each other the entire time. When they next met, they both pretended nothing had happened and carried on as close to normal as they could, tense and sniping at each other and ignoring Sam's confused expressions.

The second time, Dean had been drunk and alone in his motel room. He had called to Cas and the angel had come, and had taken one look at Dean’s dark eyes and shirtless chest and that was it. They fell into bed together and Dean made the angel scream for the first time. Cas’ skin had been warm under his hands, his mouth hot and needy, and Dean had enjoyed pinning the angel’s hands to the bed and giving them both what they needed so badly. Afterwards, Castiel had kissed Dean chastely on the lips and left through the front door - Dean supposed it was a gesture to lessen the blow, rather than just vanishing from sight.

It happened more frequently as the years passed, and their feelings for each other grew in strength, although they never put a name to what they were. They weren't a couple; they couldn't be. There was too much water under the bridge, too many lies and betrayals, and although Dean would be able to forgive it all if Cas finally gave in and became his partner, he doesn't think the angel can do the same. Castiel carries a heavy burden of guilt, the same as Dean, but it forces the angel to stay at arms length and only come to the hunter occasionally, when the need for human contact becomes too much. Castiel does stay longer now, after they finish, and sometimes they will lie in bed together and talk for hours or just enjoy each other's presence in comfortable silence. Outside of Dean’s bedroom or the back seat of the Impala, Castiel is distant and closed off, the only hint of their intimacy in occasional intense glances or gentle smiles in Dean’s direction. When they're alone together and know they won't be disturbed, the angel is soft and gentle and sweet, acquiescing to anything Dean wants, and murmuring words of praise and devotion. Dean is ready for more, ready for that version of Castiel to come home to stay permanently, and felt like they were on the cusp of it…before everything went to shit. Before he threw the man he loved out of their home on a piece of wayward advice, before Cas fell victim to people who wanted to destroy him, before they spent more time apart than they had done in a very long time.

Asking Cas to leave had been…Dean can't think about it. It hurts too much to remember the look on Castiel’s face and the way Dean had to force himself to shut down, else risk spilling everything to the former angel and entangling them even more. He thought he had been doing the right thing; saving his brother. But now, looking back, at what cost had that safety come?

Dean loves Cas. As in, really loves him. Not as a friend, not as a brother: as his everything. He came to that staggering realisation a while ago and had a pretty big, private freak out about it before conceding that there was precious little he could do to fight his feelings, so he might as well go with them. He hasn't yet managed to pluck the courage up to tell his angel, as much as he's sure his feelings are reciprocated. Dean grips the wheel so hard his knuckles go white, and makes a firm resolution as he hears Cas stirring and whining in distress again behind him.

He will tell Castiel how he feels, no matter what, and he will tell him that he wants everything with him. Body, mind, soul; past, present, future. The laughter, the pain, the difficulties they face in their line of work, the trouble Cas will face with the angels: Dean wants Castiel there by his side through it all. Dean has never been so sure of anything in his life before this: they belong together, and nothing is going to separate them again.

** June, eight months earlier. **

Voices swim and blur above him, and before he's even properly conscious he's hit with a violent wave of nausea and is helplessly sick all over himself, nothing but water and bile, and his stomach cramps up agonisingly. Someone near him grunts their displeasure, then pain is sparking in Castiel’s temple: he's been punched. He can't open his eyes; the effort it takes is too much and he stirs restlessly, trying to gain some control over his body.

Hands are on him, pushing him over to lie on his front, and he cracks his eyes open just enough to gather that he's in a dirty hotel room, and most definitely not alone. He vomits again, and cries out in pain as a foot connects with his ribcage.

“Can't you sort him out?” An irritated voice swirls and ebbs, close to his ear, talking to someone else in the room. “Give him some more, knock him out. I'm fed up of this. I don't pay you for this hassle.”

His arm is gripped and twisted up painfully, and something sharp bites at his skin. He forces his eyes open to see a needle, the silver metal crusted with blood, pushed into his skin by a familiar man: straggly haired and mean-looking, and he's smirking down at Castiel as he cries out and tries to get his failing body to twist away. Someone is on top of him, holding him down, and he's powerless to fight as the drug works it's way into his veins. The pain and pressure peak then dissipate slowly as his vision blurs and his mouth runs dry.

His head falls back down to the bed as the sensation of drifting away settles on him, weighing him down and winding tightly around every fibre of him. It's not strong enough to send him spiralling into unconsciousness, but enough to render him immobile and mute, as firm hands work their way down his body and laughter fades away into the background. His cheeks are wet with tears, and soon the sheets beneath him are stained with urine and blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**February**

“ _Dean_!”

The cry that tears through the bunker is one of raw panic, and Dean is on his feet and running before Sam has even registered the sound. He left Cas alone for a minute, less than a minute, and he's cursing himself as he throws the bedroom door open to find his angel curled on his side in bed, wracked with a fever, calling Dean’s name over and over again.

“Cas, it's OK, I'm here…” Dean’s words spill from him as he climbs onto the bed and wraps the angel in his arms, with no idea of what to say or do. Cas is shaking violently, his shoulders heaving with dry sobs and cries of fear, and Dean has never felt so powerless. “It's all right, I only left for a second, I'm sorry. Cas, I'm sorry.”

They hadn't thought withdrawal would hit Castiel quite so quickly, but evidently they've underestimated how addicted to the drug he really is. Sam had swiped one of the syringes as they left, and told Dean in tight, hoarse tones that he was certain it was heroin. They had both heard stories of gangs preying on vulnerable men and women, getting them hooked on smack then exploiting them in every way possible, and it seems all too clear that their angel has fallen victim to one such gang. Dean holds some grim satisfaction that he dispatched at least a handful of the members while rescuing Cas from their clutches. It fills both brothers with unmistakable horror at the idea of the once formidable celestial force of nature being manipulated and abused, beaten down to such a state that he has no clue where he is or who is with him. Sam vanishes, no doubt to get water or something to help the angel cope with the agony flowing through his veins, and Dean grips his jaw in an attempt to get him to focus.

“Cas, it's me. It's Dean.”

But Castiel’s blue eyes, sparkling with tears, stare straight through Dean and his hands come up to push the hunter away. The words from the cracked, bloodied lips tug at Dean’s heart.

“Please…I can't, I don't want to, please…” There are bruises around the angel’s mouth and blue-black fingerprints on his jaw. Scratches left behind by fingernails run up his throat, and a barely-healed graze marks one temple as though he's been held down, his face against rough concrete.

“Cas…” Dean clasps both the angel’s hands in his and holds them against his own chest, right above his heart, which he swears is breaking as every second goes by. “I'm not going to hurt you, I swear. It's me, it's Dean. Remember?”

Something flickers in Castiel’s eyes, and for a split second he meets Dean’s gaze and his lips part in something akin to curiosity. His brows crease in the adorable way Dean is so familiar with, and for an instant his lover is back, staring up at him in blissed-out comprehension.

“You…Dean…”

“Yeah, Cas,” Encouraged, Dean climbs fully onto the bed and lies down at Cas’ side, keeping the angel tucked close against him and their eyes locked. “It's me. Come back to me, buddy. Come on.”

Castiel is sticky with sweat and his skin feels like it's burning up; Dean doesn't care how gross Cas is, because to Dean nothing could ever be off-putting, and draws the angel’s head close to press a kiss to his forehead. It's tender and intimate, and he hopes it will help ground the other man, help drag him back from whatever haze he's in and that he will realise where he is. Or at least, whose arms are around him. The door sounds and Sam appears at their side, a glass in one hand and a basin in the other. He helps Dean incline Cas’ head so he can sip the water and busies himself wringing out a washcloth and pressing it to the angel’s searing forehead.

“He's burning up, Dean. We need to get his temp down.”

Between them, and with some difficulty because Cas fights them as soon as he realises what their intentions are, they strip off the overshirt Cas is wearing and the sweatpants Dean had dressed him in when they got back to the bunker, and try to soak the angel in as much cool water as possible to lower his temperature. Castiel keens, writhing against them in clear terror; Dean gives up in favour of sitting on the bed against the wall and dragging Cas up to lie back-to-chest against him, between his legs, so he can stroke his angel’s hair and murmur words of comfort into his ear as Sam continues to work on him. It seems to soothe Cas somewhat, and his head falls back against Dean’s chest as their eyes meet, green interlocking with blue, and soon Cas is lying pliant in Dean’s arms, breathing hard in choked little gasps as he fights his fever, staring in rapture up at his hunter. Dean stares back quietly, stroking Cas’ cheek and holding him close in a strong embrace.

“Dean…you're…is it you?”

“Yeah, baby,” Dean finds his eyes burning with tears and he doesn't have the energy to fight them. Sam moves his hands off Cas’ stomach for second, wiping the sweat off him, before Dean nudges him away and pulls Cas even closer. “It's me. I came to find you. We couldn't leave you there.” He strokes Castiel’s damp hair back from his face. “You're safe, now. You're home.”

Sam retreats, quietly. Cas is calmer now, his fever broken and lucidity is returning to him to some degree. The younger Winchester knows it will be a matter of time before withdrawal hits him again, and wants him to be as peaceful as possible until then. He needs Dean, and they need to be alone. He shuts the door behind him, makes his way to the library and opens his laptop, typing ‘heroin withdrawal’ into the search bar and getting to work on how they can help Cas through it. He's sure there are other drugs at work in the angel’s body, but they need a starting point and this is as good as any.

Castiel’s breathing eventually deepens and evens out, and he stares up at Dean with sleepy, glazed eyes. Dean brushes a thumb over cracked lips and wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss him, but something stops him. He doesn't truly know what Castiel has been through, whether or not he's really lucid, or what could send him spiralling into a panic, and whenever his lips meet the angel’s once more he needs it to be perfect. Cas needs to be focused and more than anything, it needs to be what the angel wants, and with his consent. Dean has a feeling that too much has happened to Castiel against his will since he fell from heaven, and that his only knowledge of being human is pain, fear, and deception. It should never have been this way. Dean should never have let this happen.

“I'm so sorry, Cas.” He whispers, and brushes laway his own tears as they fall onto the angel’s cheeks. “I'm sorry for everything. This is all my fault, and I'll do whatever it takes to get you through this.” Cas blinks hazily up at him, bringing his sweat-slick hand up to Dean’s cheek and the hunter leans in to the touch.

“Missed you, Dean,” Cas whispers, voice barely audible as his eyes fall closed and he passes out against Dean’s chest. For that, Dean is thankful because he can't stop the tears, and equally he cannot let his angel see him cry.

**July, seven months earlier.**

Castiel is cold. Really, really fucking cold. It's mid-summer, and the evening is mild and balmy, but his whole body is wracked with violent shivers and he's pretty sure he's running a fever. He's barely dressed, his jeans slung low on his hips thanks to all the weight he's lost and his shirt hanging open because every time he tries to button it his hands get slapped away. He barely has enough energy to stay on his feet; every time he slips back against the wall or stumbles like he's going to collapse, he's roughly shaken or slapped across the face to wake him up. He's supposed to be alluring, not unconscious. He isn't doing a very good job of it.

He thought they were being kind to him. Sharing their food and water, telling him about something they had that would take his pain away; he had been so fucking foolish and naive to believe anyone would be kind to him that way. He’s fast learning that being human isn't for him; he doesn't know how to do it and he's making a mess of everything. He misses his grace, his wings, and his hunters and without it all he can't work out what's left for him in this world. Tears brim in his eyes and spill over, and he earns himself a backhand across the face for it.

“Stop fuckin’ crying,” a voice hisses in his ear and Cas stumbles from the blow, bringing a hand to his cheek and looking at his fingers almost curiously as they come away spotted with blood. “You're a fuckin’ nightmare, more trouble than you're worth.”

He's shoved forwards a few steps, firm hands gripping his hips tightly to keep him upright, and he shivers as a breeze caresses his overheated skin. Drugs are pulsing through his bloodstream, clouding his vision and rendering him pretty much incapable of speech. He's been standing out in the street for almost an hour as people pass him by, sending him looks of either intrigue or disgust. They're in a bad neighbourhood: the brick wall behind him is littered with bullet holes and there's a smear of dried blood under the nearby dumpster. The dumpster Castiel was held against by one man as the other forced another dose of heroin into him and told him to behave if he wanted to eat at all for the next few days. Cas complied, and now he's waiting for someone to come along and express interest in him so that he can earn his keep.

The men who keep up the constant supply of water and scraps of food tell him that this is just how the world works: everyone works for their money, some people just have different jobs to others. That Castiel is barely worth this, and that he should be grateful they're keeping him alive. He can't remember their names, doesn't think he's ever been told; all he knows of them is that they're no good. That they harm people, lie, cheat and steal, and that he's made the biggest mistake of his long life by getting involved with them because now, out of his mind on hard substances and serving as a toy for their income, he's lost his chance to get away. They keep him calm and docile on purpose so he's easy to handle, and he barely retains enough strength to climb the stairs of the hotel at the end of the night, let alone to try and fight his way to freedom.

What would be out there for him anyway, if he did escape? It seems like nobody wants him cluttering up their life. He thought maybe Dean would; when he fell and became human, he thought Dean would want him properly, that the fooling around they had been doing would materialise into something more, that they could build a life together. He had always wondered if Dean was holding back because of who he was, and had spent years wondering what he could do to make himself into a person Dean could truly want to share his life with. He had thought that's what Dean wanted to speak to him about, that day at the bunker, and he was so ready to be Dean’s everything. It had felt like things were headed that way. He had waited with bated breath, thinking that finally he was going to get his happy ending, ready with the words to tell Dean just how much he cared for him and how in love he really was. So Cas hasn't really understood what Dean meant when he asked him to leave, had listened but not really heard the words and only realised Dean was serious when the hunter sighed and turned away. Despite the agony and betrayal and sheer confusion that had ripped him almost in two from his heart outwards, he had done it dutifully because…because it was Dean, and he loved Dean and Dean would never ask him to do something without a good reason, surely?

As he had climbed the staircase, confused and crushed, he had looked back down to see Sam smiling at his brother and clapping him on the shoulder, Dean’s back turned firmly to the retreating angel - and it was then that Castiel realised. He was useless to the Winchesters now, no grace and no wings, and they weren't interested in him any more. He had been dismissed. What he thought he'd had with Dean had just been another typical Castiel blunder: Dean wanted someone on tap whenever he felt the need for a fuck, and Cas had stupidly misread it all. He had never been what Dean wanted. He was just a broken toy to the hunter without his grace, and that thought had sparked the first human tears Cas had ever shed. Tears that he hadn't known how to hold back, tears that hadn't stopped fully until the next day when he woke sore, cold and alone in a shop doorway, being hurried along by the angry owner.

Movement in front of him snaps him out of his daydream and a rough hand takes his chin, forcing his gaze up until he's staring into sparkling green eyes and his heart lurches.

Dean…

“Well, well, you're pretty enough, aren't ya?” Definitely not Dean speaks, and despair drags at Castiel, familiar and sinking. “Bit older than I'd normally go for, but what the hell. I've heard you're cheap.”

Cas tries to speak, tries to say no, and his hands come up to push at the man’s chest. He's tall, well-built and strong in comparison to the fallen angel, and Castiel’s resistance brings a nasty laugh to the other man’s lips. He's struggling to focus on the face of the guy, trying to see past green eyes and a mean smile, but everything else is lost in a haze of barely-conscious confusion. Behind him, his handler snaps something and Cas drops his hands, complying. He hadn't caught the words, but the tone was evident: behave, or get fucked up.

He's left standing on his own as the two men converse behind him, and he thinks about running off. The thought lasts only a second; he knows he wouldn't make it more than a few steps before either collapsing or falling victim to a bullet in his back. The voices hush, money likely exchanges hands, then Castiel’s arm is gripped tightly and he's dragged further down the darkened alley to the end where it ends at a metal gate and a pile of ransacked bin bags. Cas’ feet are kicked from under him and he goes down hard, landing on his knees and gasping at the pain. His jaw is gripped, fingers pressing firmly at the corners and forcing his mouth open, and after that Castiel is glad of his drugged-up haze. It makes it easier, somehow.

His handler watches from a short distance away, ensuring he behaves, and fingers the wad of notes he’s taken in exchange for the fallen angel’s services.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your hits, kudos and comments, it really means the world to me. Updates will be a lot slower this week as I fly to J2M's playground (aka the beautiful city of Rome) tomorrow for 5 nights; I'll try to post updates on the hotel wifi if I can!

**February**

  
Castiel sleeps on and off for eighteen hours, waking occasionally to sip water and listen to Dean murmur words of comfort in his ear before falling back into what Dean knows is an unpleasant, restless slumber. He isn’t convinced that Cas really knows where he is yet, or that he’s safe. The angel hasn’t been conscious long enough for them to trade more than a couple of words, and Cas has done nothing more than whisper Dean’s name. He doesn't leave Cas alone for longer than he can help, only leaving the room to run down the corridor to the bathroom when nature calls, and even then he's back at the angel’s side before Cas can realise he was gone. Sam leaves them to it, bringing them food and water and checking in on them from time to time, but Dean has no appetite at all and can't get Cas to even look at anything edible. Eventually Sam brings some sort of shake with protein powder and fruit in which Cas sips dutifully. The angel whispers a few minutes later to Dean that he feels sick, and moments later proves that point as he drags himself up onto an elbow and vomits the contents of his stomach, water and bile all over the sheets. Dean cleans it up without a word, bundling Cas onto a chair and wrapping him in a blanket as he strips the sheets and replaces them with fresh ones. Castiel just watches him, white-faced and drawn, eyes too bright and shaking just a little too much. He doesn't protest when Dean slides an arm under his shoulder and another under his thighs, lifting him bodily and lying him back on the bed. He doesn’t utter a word when Dean strips off to his boxers and t-shirt and climbs into bed with Cas, pulling him close and rubbing his shoulders to try and ease the tremors. Cas traces patterns onto Dean’s chest with a fingertip, quiet and sad, and Dean can't help but rock him gently and stroke his hair like a child. Cas is hurting deeply, in every way possible, and all Dean can focus on is his angel and the guilt slowly eating him alive. He waits until Castiel’s breathing has evened out and he nods off against his chest before letting more tears fall, and eventually Dean cries himself to sleep.

Some time later, after Cas has slept for almost a solid hour without waking with a cry - a record so far - he comes to with a start, staring up into the dark and has no idea where he is or whose arms he’s lying in. The haze that he's been existing in for the last…however long, he really isn't sure how much time has passed, has lifted somewhat and he feels dreadful but that isn't the point. He feels. He hasn't really felt anything for a long time, spending most days asleep and most nights in a substance-induced fog, but now something feels different. His body is aching in all the places he would expect, but there's something else. A warm body is pressed against him, and as he shifts he realises that actually it's him pressing into a warm body, and for some reason he doesn't feel afraid. He's on his side, half on top of someone with a firm chest and strong arms, arms which are encircling his waist comfortably, not holding him too tight or putting on too much pressure. His head is pillowed on the shoulder of whoever it is, his face almost pressed into the guy’s neck, and as he takes a deep breath his senses are assaulted with the smell of whiskey, gun oil and leather and he tenses in shock.

Dean…

“Cas?”

The body beneath him shifts, and a voice that sounds so achingly familiar that Castiel almost bursts out crying murmurs his name into his hair. He clings, his hands automatically fisting in the fabric of a t-shirt and his whole body tightening and pulling closer as the man sits up a little and says his name again and…

“Dean?”

A light flicks on, dimly, and Cas blinks for a minute as he takes in his surroundings. He can't control the tremors wracking through his body, but the man he's certain is Dean is rubbing his back soothingly and suddenly the ache in his very core doesn't hurt quite so much. He takes in the walls lined with weapons, the desk scattered with photographs and a leather-bound journal, and the pile of plaid shirts tossed over the chair and realisation slowly sinks in: he's in the bunker. And more than that: he's in Dean’s bedroom, so the man holding him has to be…

“Dean.”

It comes out as a sigh, and Castiel’s entire body relaxes. Dean thinks he’s passed out again, but Cas turns to cuddle closer into him and twist his hands even tighter in his t-shirt, inhaling his scent and pressing their bodies as tightly as he can. Dean presses a kiss into the angel’s filthy hair, thinking idly that they really needed to take a shower, but right now cuddling his Cas is the only thing he plans on doing. Cas suddenly jerks and pulls away, and Dean is only just able to grab for the basin Sam had left behind and hold it up for Cas while he dry heaves and spits mouthfuls of bile, reactionary tears streaming down his cheeks, until he’s spent, exhausted, and collapses onto his back, gasping. He shivers, breaking out in a cold sweat, and Dean gently guides him back into his arms, to lie on top of him, and rubs circles into Castiel’s back. After a minute, the angel pushes himself up onto his elbows, dirty hair falling in his face, and looks down at Dean with bloodshot but focused eyes, and for the first time in many, many months Castiel smiles.

“Is this real?”

Cas’ voice is rough with disuse, and he's only half serious. He knows that the Dean below him is real, is his Dean, and for a moment he allows himself to forget how it felt to be cast out. Instead, he remembers what it's like to lie in bed with his lover, to feel safe, and the ache in his bones fades a little more. Dean’s hand comes up to cup his cheek and the hunter smiles - it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah, baby. It's real. I'm here, and you're safe.”

Cas sighs, drops his head down to Dean’s chest, and feels a swell of emotion as the hunter’s arms encircle his waist once more. He’s too exhausted to even try and sort through his emotions, to ask how and why Dean is with him, or to work out what the hunter’s intentions are. He inhales Dean’s scent, cringing as his body throbs and aches, and Dean rubs his shoulders and strokes his hair.

Cas shivers; Dean pulls the covers up. He coughs, whining quietly at the pain in his throat; Dean sits him up and presses a glass to his lips. His head falls to Dean’s shoulder as sleep drags at him; Dean lowers them both down to the bed and cradles the angel in his arms until he drifts off, and Dean stays awake to watch over him and hush him as his nightmares wax and wane.

**July, six months earlier**

Somewhere in a small town in Illinois, Dean and Sam are drinking in a bar. Their hunt for the angel isn't going too well, but neither of them are worried yet. It hasn't been all that long, and God knows they deserve a break after all the crap they went through with Ezekiel-slash-Gadreel. Dean is pleasantly drunk, and Sam is laughing at him. They're as close to content as they have been for months, and the evening passes in a haze of beer, food, and brotherly affection.

A hundred miles away, in a filthy hotel room, someone has a hand over Castiel’s mouth and is pinning him to a wall. He's been stripped naked and is trembling in fear, knowing that whatever is coming next won't be pleasant. The man had shoved two fingers too deep into the angel’s mouth, hadn't removed them when Cas retched and gagged, and Castiel had bitten him badly in reaction. He’s in for a world of pain, and he knows it; the drugs have worn off enough to leave him lucid and terrified - the look in the man’s eyes says he’s out for blood.

Dean laughs at something Sam says, slapping his palm on the table and Sam just smirks, glad to see his brother smiling. They order more drinks, and ask for the dessert menu, Sam ordering coffee and Dean ordering two types of pie just because he can: cherry and lime-pecan. Uncharacteristically, he shares with Sam, claiming his brother needs a bit more meat on his bones at that salad is clearly not a good diet for anyone.

Castiel is thrown face-down on the floor and kicked viciously. One particularly hard blow to his back makes him cry out as agony blossoms up his spine. He's grabbed by the hair and his head is slammed against a wall - stars sparkle behind his eyes as his vision blurs. It happens again, and Cas’ ears ring. A boot comes up out of nowhere, connecting with his face and his head snaps back; he collapses to the floor with a cry of pain as blood fills his mouth.

The waitress flirts with Dean, and he flirts back, all dazzling smiles and witty compliments. Sam rolls his eyes and watches the football game on the flatscreen TV in the bar, downing another shot of whiskey. He smiles in spite of himself at his brother’s antics.

Cas can't catch his breath, coughing and choking against broken ribs and crush injuries to his throat. He hears his handler bark instructions at him, but his head is pounding so badly that he can’t discern what’s being said to him. He’s kicked again, and a hand grips his throat; someone hisses in his ear and spits in his face. He's coughing blood, holding both hands to his chest as his right wrist throbs in agony and starts to swell, and from his position lying sprawled on his back he's helpless to defend himself as his legs are kicked apart.

Sam and Dean play a few rounds of pool, sparring lightly and neither playing much better than the other. They play doubles with two pretty girls in denim hot pants and Sam gives one of them his number. Dean buys them all drinks and the waitress flirts even harder with him, clearly jealous of the attention the other women are gleaning. Dean retires to a booth with her, whispering sweet nothings into her ear and eventually kissing her as she giggles and drags him closer.

Cas tries to turn onto his stomach, tries to crawl away in the direction he thinks the door is in. But with one hand out of action and two men looming over him, he doesn’t stand a chance. He hears cruel laughter, and hands on his hips turn him over and spread his thighs; he cries out as a firm hand grips his genitals, twisting until he howls in agony and starts to beg for mercy. None comes, and eventually Cas vomits from the pain.

‘Carry On My Wayward Son’ plays from the speakers, and Dean grins and sings along.

Castiel gets two fingers broken by his handler, his punishment for being sick in front of a client.

Sam wins the final game of pool and throws his arms in the air with a victorious shout, proclaiming himself the champion.

Cas can't stop crying.

Dean leaves later on with the waitress and they spend the night together. Sam returns to their motel alone but sleeps better than he has in months, buoyed by the alcohol and the knowledge that the angels possessing him are a distant memory for now, and that his brother is somewhere having the time of his life and not focusing, just for a while, on his guilt.

Castiel screams for help until his voice runs out. He can't hold in cries of pain as his body is violated, and eventually a hand comes over his mouth again and he's told to be quiet, that he's ruining the fun with his whining. His handler is sitting on the bed, watching as the fallen angel is slowly and vicious raped on the dirty carpet of an unnamed hotel room, counting the notes in his hand. Nobody listens to the angel cry. Nobody comes to his aid.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, Rome is the most beautiful city ever. I see why our boys love it so much ;) I said I'd never write RPF but now I'm feeling inspired...

** February **

  
Withdrawal hits Castiel hard; three days after the Winchesters found him and he's the worst he's ever felt, and he swears he would prefer death to all this. He wonders in his delirious haze if he’s been rescued from one hell and thrown into another, and only the constant presence of Dean reassures him that he’s at least still on earth. Unless Dean has descended back to hell too, and in that case they would both be truly fucked.

He sleeps fitfully, drenched in cold sweat and shaking violently, as Dean tries in vain to soothe him and comfort him as his body screams out for the drug it has become so accustomed to. He can’t keep much down, vomiting bile and water and collapsing back down to the bed with low, sad cries of pain as his muscles contract and spasm in protest. Sam brings juice, protein drinks, smoothies and soup, which Cas manages with some difficulty. They call consider it a success every time he manages not to puke it all back up. Dean has bandaged his right forearm after draining a painful abscess from a needle stick infection and Sam had taken two vials of blood from his other arm and sent them off to some unnamed clinic in Ohio that promised anonymous STD testing with no questions asked. Neither of the Winchesters are convinced it’s legit, but they had coughed up the money for the tests anyway in desperation to help their angel.

But the worst of it all, for Dean, is the begging that spills from the older man’s lips. Castiel looks at him through fever-bright eyes, and pleads with Dean to help him. To make the pain stop, to take it all away or give him something to knock him out. He holds Castiel’s hands, which are always wet with sweat, and tries to hush him as he cries tears of agony and fear and begs Dean to stop hurting him. Through his haze, the angel thinks the hunter is punishing him for something, and that is what Dean can’t stomach. He doesn't think it can get any worse, as Cas leans over and pukes up bile into the basin Dean holds for him, but then the angel murmurs something new and Dean swears his heart stops.

“I'm sorry…Dean, I'm so fucking sorry…”

Castiel falls back down into bed on his back, one arm cast out towards Dean and he's reminded chillingly of the night they found Cas: he's lying in a staggeringly similar position and Dean can't stand it. He shoves the vomit-filled basin away from him and threads his fingers through Castiel’s, nudging him further onto the bed until there's room for him to slide in next to the angel. Cas tosses and turns next to him, cheeks wet with tears, and gazes at Dean through glassy eyes.

“Please, Dean, forgive me. Please…”

“Cas, baby, you have to stop.” Dean strokes his damp hair from his face, the angel gazing up at him blindly, ghostly-white and quaking. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

“You don't know,” Cas is trembling all over, reaching for Dean and the hunter takes his hand with both of his. “You don't know what I've done, Dean, and when you know you'll never forgive me,” his voice is barely audible, breaking on his final word as he hiccoughs and tries to steady his breathing. “I had to, they made me, I didn't have a choice…I let them…I should have been stronger, Dean I'm so sorry…”

Dean can't form words to comfort the angel because, while he doesn't know the specifics of what Castiel was forced to do, he can take an educated guess.

“I'm so sorry, Dee.”

And the pet name is jarring, one Dean is only used to hearing from Castiel’s lips when they're alone together and close to orgasm, when they're breathing hotly into each other's open mouths and when Dean is trying to hold back a stuttered ‘I love you’ because he doesn't want to scare Cas. He's holding the very same words back now, stroking his angel’s face and nudging his jaw up so they can gaze into each other's eyes. Cas reaches up to stroke Dean’s jaw, his fingers trailing patterns across his skin, moving further up into his hair and it feels like Cas is trying to memorise him by touch. The angel is feverish, looks and sounds like he has a severe case of the flu, but Dean knows from Sam’s research that it’s his body’s way of attempting to rebalance itself and force the remnants of the drugs out of his system - and it seems to be agony. Cas sleeps a lot, vomits a lot, and his eyes and nose are constantly streaming; he snuffles into his pillows and scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and it makes Dean’s skin burn just watching him do it.

Cas’ hand feels nice in his hair, and Dean remembers all the times he’s done it before, when they were together and had very few cares in the world. After this, hunting demons and ghouls and vampires will be a walk in the park.

“Dean…

Cas smiles and it’s the closest to content he’s looked since his rescue. Then, he brings his hand down to the back of Dean’s neck and nudges him forward, and does something so unexpected that Dean freezes completely. Castiel’s lips are hot and chapped against his, and it’s a fragmented memory of their passionate, intense makeout sessions of years gone by, but it’s there. Cas is kissing him, and Dean’s brain short-circuits. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t kiss back either, but Cas is persistent. He pulls back just a little, snuffling quietly, then kisses Dean again this time cupping his face with both his hands. Dean feels moisture on his lips then tastes salt - and realises with a jolt that the angel is crying silent tears. He jerks back, both hands coming up to clasp Castiel’s, but Cas nudges forward again, whispering ‘please, Dee, please’ against his lips and Dean is powerless. It’s a warm, sad, closed-mouth kiss and neither of them put any heat into it: instead it’s intimate and powerful, and as Dean moves his mouth against his angel’s he tries to convey all his love and adoration through his lips into Castiel, praying silently that Cas can feel it somehow. Cas whines against his mouth, snuffles a little, and then his tears start properly and he has to quit kissing Dean to gasp in little breaths. Dean waits a beat to see if he wants to pull away, and when he doesn’t he leans his forehead against Cas’, the angel still cupping his face, and they share shaking breaths for a few moments.

“It’ll be all right, Cas,” Dean whispers, wanting to say more but unsure whether he should.

Castiel is fragile, in the early stages of healing from violent sexual abuse, and Dean is ill-equipped to deal with his recovery. Sam has told him that the physical effects of his addiction will dissipate after a week or two - and a week or two sounds like forever to Dean - but the depression and anxiety left behind, combined with the trauma Castiel has been through, will be the crux of it all and the hardest things to tackle. Dean had stopped his brother there, and told him that he wanted Cas back on his feet no matter what it took, and that they would get through it together. He had left Sam under no illusions that while Sam was part of that, what he really meant was that he and Cas would do it together. He would be Castiel’s rock, the person for him to lean on or cry on or shout at, whatever he needed to get well. He can deal with his own guilt and sorrow on his own time - or he could bury it in that locked box where he keeps the rest of his heartache, but the way he sees it if Castiel can overcome the worst months of his life and come out the other side then Dean owes it to him to work through and atone for his guilt. After all, Cas being in this situation is completely down to him and his own selfish, ill-thought-out actions.

Cas shudders a breath against Dean’s lips and kisses him gently again, eyes closed and fingers pressing tightly against the skin of the hunter’s jaw. Dean doesn’t want to deny his angel comfort, but kissing him in such a state feels wrong on so many levels. He presses his lips chastely to Cas’, then to his forehead, then reaches down and pulls the covers tightly around them. The angel cuddles close, sighing, and shudders tear through him as he coughs.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice comes from the door, quiet so as not to disturb them too much.

“What?” He doesn’t mean it to come out so sharply, and he feels a swoop of guilt at Sam’s flinch.

“Want me to take over?”

“No, Sam. We’re fine.” Dean’s voice is gruff, muffled in Castiel’s hair, and the angel clings a little more to him evidently worrying he’s going to be left alone. He feels a misplaced irritation at his brother for unsettling his angel, and that transfers into his tone when he tells Sam to leave. The door closes with a little more force than required, and Dean chalks that up to the long list of things he has to apologise to people for. But at that moment, he doesn’t care. He cradles Cas, stroking his hair and shushing him through his tremors and moans, helping him sit up when he needs water or to be sick, and telling Cas how brave he is and how strong, watching the angel tear up at his words. Castiel shakes his head and tells Dean that no, he isn’t, he was weak and foolish and pathetic, but Dean can’t bear to hear it.

He lets Cas sleep, and eventually drops off himself, listening to the angel snuffle in his sleep and wriggle against him, glad that even though Cas is suffering, he’s suffering in Dean’s arms and not alone any more. He's where he belongs. And together, they can fight all this and come out the other side.

**August, five months earlier**

The man fucking Castiel changes angles, punching a pained gasp from the angel lying beneath him on his side. Castiel’s ribs were broken a few days ago, and lying on his back constricts his breathing so much that he succumbs to a rush of panic and dizziness, drugged or not. The client has gone easy on him and Cas has murmured his thanks repeatedly. He's alone in the room with the man - hot, sweaty lump of a guy in his early 50s with beady eyes and not much hair - and he's thankful. He can relax a little without his handler around, barking commands and punishing Cas when he doesn't get them quite right. Clients are generally more lenient, as long as the angel does what is asked of him without protest.

The man comes inside him with a grunt, lies on top of Cas for a minute until he's caught his breath, then pulls out too quickly and Cas’ insides constrict and spasm. He turns on his front to hide his grimace of pain, listening to his client fasten his clothing and purr compliments and praise at him. Cas is wet between his spread thighs and sore; the man leans down and fingers him for a moment or two, tugging at his stretched rim and playing with his own semen in apparent fascination. The angel’s face is buried in his own forearms as he waits for it to stop, and eventually the door opens and closes as the clients disappears.

Cas dozes for a while, his earlier euphoria long gone and a pleasantly numb fog settling over him, and he lets himself drift off. Noises come from next door and upstairs, but he learned to tune them out weeks ago. He hears someone stumble and let out a low giggle, then the mattress dips and someone lies down beside him with an open palm right by his face. A handful of small tablets stare up at him as he cracks an eye open and he shakes his head, turning sleepily to face the other way. His roommate mumbles ‘suit yourself’ and seems to melt away until Cas is alone again.

He dreams a little of Sam, sometimes of other people from his old life like Crowley or the angels, but mostly the face he sees is Dean’s. His shy smiles and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Castiel smiles in his sleep. He misses his hunters so much it hurts, but he hopes they are safe without him.

Later, his handler shakes him awake and tells him to clean up, that he has another client coming, and when Cas has wiped himself down he sits obediently as his wrist is taken, turned to expose the skin of his inner elbow now etched with track marks, and a belt is wrapped around his bicep to help raise veins. He holds the belt himself, tightly, and looks away as the needle pierces his flesh. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to - or maybe he just thinks it doesn't. His handler tells him what's expected by his clients - plural - and he nods, euphoria building inside him until he's smiling helplessly, head tipped back and a sigh of relief leaving his lips. He doesn't have to think any more. He doesn't even have to really feel any more; the drug numbs him so the rough hands don't elicit quite as much discomfort, and he lies back and sends a sultry, dark look at the two men in the doorway who have paid for an hour with him.

His handler drops the used syringe on the floor and leaves them alone together. Castiel works hard with his mouth and open legs, and earns himself another hit to help him sleep. As he drifts off, Cas’ eyes land on the syringe and he wonders idly how much it would take to stop him waking ever again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that 45 of you are waiting for this chapter is all kinds of awesome/overwhelming. Thank you for every comment, kudos and sub, you're all amazing.

** September **

  
Cas raises a shaky hand and knocks on the door to his handler’s bedroom. He can hear raucous, dirty laughter and the air is saturated with the smell of cigars, weed, and something that smells to the angel like burnt paracetamol. There's no response to his first knock, so he tries again a little louder and a gruff voice commands him to enter. He nudges the door open with his good hand - his right is still bandaged from a fight he had gotten into a few days previous and had come away with fractured fingers and dark blue bruises. His handler hasn't been pleased, but had cuffed Castiel around the head almost affectionally and told him he did well not turning tail and running from his opponent - a man convinced that Cas had been stealing his clients and wanted his revenge. Cas didn't know if he had stolen anyone else’s clients - his handler normally arranged everything. If he had, they were welcome to have them back.

“What?” The greying whip of a man grunts at him, displeased to see him lurking unsteadily in the doorway. They’re sitting playing cards, four or five of them crowded around a table and Cas catches a fleeting glimpse of piles of notes scattered between them. An amount of money like that could change his life, get him out of there and onto a train and away…

But he has nowhere to go, nobody to take him in, and if he left then who knew where he would end up? His life could end up intrinsically worse - somehow, he wasn't really sure how that could be possible, but what was that phrase humans used? Better the devil you know.

Plus, his handler has something he needs.

“I asked you a question.” His handler snaps at him, and Cas didn't really think that was true since one grumbled word in his direction didn't really amount to a query, but he doesn't comment. Staying quiet keeps him safe.

“I-I have a client soon,” Cas shifts from one door to the other, looking at the floor beneath his bare feet. It's filthy, covered in broken glass and cigarette butts and he has to be careful where he stands.

“Yeah, I booked that in for you so your whiny bitch ass could earn its keep. So what?”

Cas is silent, not knowing how to ask. He clenches his hands at his side, ignoring the pain that blossoms from his broken fingers, trying to stop the tremors. His heart is pounding in his ears and he swears he can taste his own blood.

“I just wondered…if I could…if you had…”

“Spit it out boy, we’re in the middle of a game here.”

Cas’ mouth is so dry he can barely speak, but his handler’s eyes glitter menacingly as he realises what he's trying to ask. He shoves his chair away from the table, picks a lit cigarette up from an overflowing ash tray, and approaches Castiel with predatory intent. Cas freezes, eyes still firmly fixed on the floor, as his handler circles him closely, near enough that Cas can smell his body odour and he shivers in repulsion. His handler stops behind him, breathing wetly on Castiel’s neck and slides an arm across his bare torso. A sharp pain sears into Castiel’s collarbone and he gasps in reaction, barely holding in a cry of pain. The cigarette that had just a moment ago been lit and hanging from his handler’s moist lips had just been put out on his skin, leaving a stinging circular burn mark.

“Go on, pretty. Ask for what you need.” The voice in his ear is low and purring, exacerbating the tremors in Cas’ hands.

“I…” Castiel can’t find his words. The other men are staring at him as though he’s a piece of meat and they haven’t eaten in weeks, and Cas has a horrible sinking feeling that the hit he needs so badly won’t come at a low price. He’s starting to feel ill, like he has the flu, and is sweating despite feeling chilled. The man’s lips press against the back of his neck at his hairline, and their bodies are pressed together uncomfortably close.

“You want a hit, baby boy? Is that what this is about? I have something you want, don't I?”

Hands are trailing down his body, down his sides to the waistband of his jeans and sliding round to finger the button and zipper. Cas swallows, unable to speak. He nods, eyes flicking from one side of the room to the other, purposely avoiding the hungry gaze of the other men who have abandoned their card game in favour of watching him be touched.

“And how do you intend to pay for it? That shit doesn’t come for free.”

“I know.”

Cas swallows thickly, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tries to reason with himself. He could walk away. He could walk back upstairs to his room and wait for his client, spend the rest of the early hours of the morning with his eyes closed and his legs spread, trying to clear his mind and not think about how bad his cravings are or the ache between his thighs. He could turn and walk downstairs, make a break for it…but he wouldn’t get far. The other day, his handler had brought a new boy in - young, mid-20s and very pretty - and he had fought like a hellcat in a way Castiel couldn’t recall because he himself had succumbed so easily. They had all come out into the hallway to watch the commotion - ten, maybe twelve men of different ages, all vacant and dozy, just like him, staring down from the banisters - silent and waiting for the inevitable. The boy had run, and for a second they all thought he had managed an escape - until the two shots rang out and the boy collapsed in the alley outside the hotel, his face in a puddle of rainwater and blood seeping away down the drain, eyes open and milky, staring into space. Cas doesn’t want to end up like that.

“What do you want from me?” He whispers it quietly, too quietly, and his handler responds by unfastening his jeans and pushing them down. He doesn’t wear underwear - he isn’t allowed - and the air is cold on his soft, exposed cock.

“Say that again, pretty, nobody heard you.”

A hand squeezes him, caresses his balls, and he closes his eyes for a moment, counting to ten. When he opens them, it’s with renewed intent but a practiced detachment. He turns, just enough to share a breath with the man behind him, and lifts a hand to trail it along the unshaven cheek. His voice is louder, less shaky, and he almost convinces himself when he speaks in a low, sultry purr. It’s a means to an end, he tells himself as his hands tremble just a little. Something he has to do to get the hit he needs to get him through the rest of the night. Something to help him earn his keep. A means to an end.

“How do you want me?”

**October**

He wakes up with a start to find his handler shaking him awake and hauling him into a sitting position. For a few seconds Cas can't speak, can't get his mouth to work properly or hear what's being said to him.

“…dressed. Five minutes.”

Then his handler is gone from the room and he's left wondering what the hell is going on as his two roommates regard him with narrowed, hazy eyes.

“Lucky boy,” the younger of the two flicks ash from his cigarette onto the floor uncaringly. “Aren't you in for a treat?”

“What do you mean?”

Cas reaches for his water bottle and sips it, grimacing. It's two days old and tastes stale. It's bitterly cold in the room, and with only one mattress between three of them they tend to stay huddled together under a pile of thin blankets. His other roommate tries to pull Cas to lie back down, missing the body heat, but Cas shrugs him off, casting about for his jeans.

“He's taking you out. Hasn't taken us anywhere in forever. I'd be grateful if I were you.”

“Out?”

His roommate, Adam, shares his cigarette with Castiel then tosses the butt away.

“Yeah. There's a club he likes. Normally takes one or two of us along; we make him a lot of money there.”

“Oh. I see.” Cas pauses, still sitting on the bed with his jeans halfway up his thighs. “I've never been to a club.”

“Never?” The other man, Benny, murmurs sleepily.

“I never had occasion.” Cas studies his fingers, feeling foolish. He's starting to feel jittery, his mouth dry despite the water, and wonders if his handler has anything for him before they go.

“Well, your life really does suck then, don’t it?” Benny turns over, away from Cas. “First time in a club and you're going to that shithole? I feel for ya man, I really do.”

“Don't listen to him.” Adam is reedy and pale, arms cut up and veins collapsed from years of injecting. He's on crack now, Castiel knows, but doesn't really want to ask what it is or what it does. It doesn't make Adam look too good, no matter how amazing it might feel. Cas is pretty sure he's in a bad state himself, but he rarely finds the energy or focus to care.

“Why me?” Cas stands unsteadily, pulling his jeans up and grimacing at how low they ride on his hips. “Why not one of you? I won't know what to do. I'll…I'll fuck it all up.” He swallows. He doesn't want to think of the punishments in store if he makes a fool of himself or his handler in a public place.

“Why you?” Benny turns over and stares at Cas incredulously. His eyes are bloodshot and he has sores around his mouth that makes Cas shudder to look at them. There's an element of bitterness in his tone as he speaks. “You kiddin’, sugar? You're his favourite. So of course he wants you. Surprised he hasn't taken ya there already.” He turns back to lie down and Cas stares, stunned.

He's never been anyone's favourite anything before. Not even Dean’s: Dean’s favourite person in the world was his brother, Castiel was always just second best. Not that being the favourite whore of a psychotic abuser was anything to be proud of, but Castiel’s existence is so miserable that he instantly clings to it.

His favourite…

His handler returns and beckons to him, and he follows without question, glad for the early onset of night as the daytime sunlight really hurts his eyes these days. He isn't sure why. They get into a car together and it only feels like seconds later when his door is opened and he's dragged out to stand in the street, shivering. He's in his jeans, which he remembers putting on, but the leather jacket around his shoulders is new and smells like someone else. He hugs it tight regardless, glad of the extra layer. Pounding music comes from somewhere across the road, punctuated by shouts and laughter, and Cas is jostled by a group of people walking past. The air bites at him, and his breath huffs in a cloud of steam as it leaves his lips. He's unsteady, feeling nervous and jittery and hopes his handler has something to take the edge off. He's craving a hit; the tremors have started and his mouth feels raw and parched. He hopes there's water in the club. They cross the street together, Cas in such a haze he has to get shoved out of the way of a passing car, then they're descending the stairs into a filthy basement club with pounding music and a deep bass beat; the place smells of sweat and cologne, cloying and thick, and Cas coughs. He feels like he's getting a cold.

His handler appraises him critically, adjusts his hair with rough fingers, then takes his wrist and they walk together into the crowd. At the bar, his handler signals the bartender then turns to Cas, pressing close to the angel so he can talk into his ear.

“Double Jack, neat. One Diet Coke.” He presses ten dollars into Castiel’s hand and the angel meets his eyes, frowning in confusion. “Don't even think about running off. I've got eyes everywhere in here - you wouldn't make it ten feet.” He touches Cas under his chin and the look in his eyes says it all. Cas swallows and nods, obedient. “I'll be right back.”

He watches his handler’s back disappear into the crowd with a bizarre sense of loss, then turns back to the bar. The bartender is staring at him with something akin to hunger, gaze roving over Castiel’s bare chest, and he croaks out his order, parroting the exact words he had been told. When one glass of amber liquid and one perspiring bottle of soda appears in front of him, he takes the change anxiously, casting around for his handler. The place is crowded, too crowded, and too loud. He's being nudged from all sides and his heart is pounding at twice the pace it had been before they entered the club. His palms are sweating and he clenches his fists against a tremor. A hand on his shoulder turns him around, and he's staring up into dark chocolate eyes and a sardonic smirk as someone he doesn't recognise runs a hand down his chest. His handler is beside him, pushing the bottle of Diet Coke into his hands along with two unmarked white pills. He's introduced to the stranger but doesn't catch his name, too busy knocking back the pills without asking what they were. His mouth and throat are parched and they go down painfully.

“He wants to dance with you,” his handler growls into his ear and there's no room for debate. Cas stares at the stranger who has extended a hand to him, and falters.

“I…I don't know how…”

Understanding dawns. The man has paid for Cas, somewhere in the room money has exchanged hands, and it's now his job to please this man. Cas knows how to bring his clients pleasure, experienced in using his hands, mouth and body to aid their climaxes. But the thought of dancing makes him nervous.

“Learn.”

A hand shoves him none-too-gently and the stranger grips his forearm, dragging him out onto the dance floor and Cas grips his drink tightly, flooded with nerves. Whatever he's just swallowed hasn't taken effect yet, and he's feeling jittery and on-edge. They move into a tiny gap in the sweating, writhing throng of people and the man brings Cas’ hand up to hook around his own neck, and slides his arms around the angel’s waist, pulling him close. The music is pounding, the bass beat ebbing and flowing around him and Cas feels a strange swooping sensation that signals the beginnings of the drug kicking in. Everyone around him is smiling, laughing, having fun; Cas doesn't remember what have fun feels like. In fact, he's not sure he's ever really experienced it. He must have done, at some point, with the Winchesters but he's coming up blank when he tries to recall a time.

The man - his client - pulls him a little closer and nuzzles his neck, breathing in his scent, and for just a moment Cas decides to pretend. Pretend that like the other couples in the club, he isn't a whore with his client - he's just a normal guy, out dancing in a nightclub with someone he likes. He's not really dancing, more swaying to the music, but the other guy is grinding against him and Cas lets his eyes fall closed. The man pulls him even tighter against him, kisses his neck, and Cas smiles. He wonders if Dean would dance like this with him in a club; he allows his fantasy to take hold and pictures Dean pressed against him. Dean's arms around him, Dean’s lips on his neck. The song changes and their movements against each other change with it. Cas sips his drink and pulls the guy closer. He even smells like Dean…

“Is there anything you won't do?”

And just like that, the illusion is shattered. Cas’ eyes fly open and he realises that no, it isn't Dean against him, that he isn't enjoying a night with his hunter - he's working, and the man holding him has paid for him. He jerks back in reaction and meets the man’s eyes which flash with surprise but then darken with something threatening and Cas hastens to respond with a shake of his head. That's one of his many rules - he isn't allowed to say no to anything a client asks of him. Anything goes.

“Good.”

The man kisses his neck once more then pulls away just enough to guide them through the throng of people, one arm still possessively curled around Castiel’s waist. They push through a door at the back of the club into a private room flanked by a bouncer, and as Cas is pushed up against a wall and his mouth captured, he's dimly aware of his handler following them in and taking a seat to watch as he does exactly what's asked of him.

At some point, much later when his first, second and third clients have left and he's lying catching his breath, his handler holds a full syringe in front of his face and taps it with a quirked eyebrow. Cas nods hastily, holding out his arm, and his handler backs away to hand the syringe to Castiel’s fourth client of the night, who has paid not only to fuck the fallen angel but to dose him with heroin until he passes out.


	7. Chapter 7

**February**

  
Dean has finally, with a lot of protesting and grumbling and muttering under his breath, allowed Sam to take over watching Cas so he can get a good night’s sleep in a room on his own. But he doesn't sleep - he knew he wouldn't, which is part of the reason he had argued so much with Sam about it.

“You think I'm just going to go get my head down and drift off happily into la-la-land while Cas is in here like this?” He had hissed at his brother in the doorway to Castiel’s room. Hearing his name, the angel had turned in bed to stare at Dean questioningly, and Sam had all but shoved him out into the corridor.

“Honestly, man, I don't care what you do. Just go do _something_ for a few hours, Cas and I will be fine. Go watch Netflix, listen to your iPod, wash your car, I don't give a damn. Just have some you time. You're not abandoning Cas,” Sam preempted his protest. “You can't care for someone 24/7 without a break, you'll burn out. And it makes no sense since I'm here too and I want to help. I care about him too, Dean.” Sam’s voice dropped an octave; Dean could see Cas watching them through the crack in the open door with sleepy, bloodshot eyes. “Not in the way you do, but he's my friend and I want to do whatever I can to help him get better. Now, go away and leave us to it.” He smiled gently at Dean, and the older Winchester knew he was beaten. He stomped off down the corridor to the kitchen, rubbing his neck and stretching muscles he hasn't even realised were sore.

Now, he's in the library staring sightlessly at a book and wanting nothing more than to go back down the corridor to Cas’ side. He had tried sleeping, but his mind wouldn't shut down enough, haunted by images of his tormented angel over the last few days, and he's restless with the need to do something.

“Sammy?” A noise from the kitchen draws his attention and Dean is on his feet before he even realises. “Is he OK?”

“Yeah, Dean, he's _fine_.” Sam closes the fridge, a bottle of something orange in his hand, and fixes Dean with a stern gaze. “He's hungry, but doesn't want to try solid food yet.” Sam shakes the bottle and Dean grimaces. It has pulp floating in it and looks way too healthy. “Carrot, orange, mango and lime. Don't look at me like that, it's good. Full of vitamins.”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts, and watches Sam’s retreating back with apprehension.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Nope.” Sam pauses, then turns back to his brother. “Actually, yes. And it will do both you and Cas some good. He needs some clothes, nothing fits him. There's a thrift store ten miles away; make yourself useful and take Baby for a spin. Clear your head, and bring him back something to wear. He can't clothe himself in that sheet like a toga, and both our clothes would drown him right now. Think you can manage that?”

Dean nods. He can do that. He can go shopping for an hour, leave Cas with Sam. But oh God, what if something…

“ _Dean_.” Sam must have learned some mind-reading skills while Gadreel was around. “Nothing's going to happen. Just go.”

Dean stomps up the stairs, clattering and banging and making his exit known, only feeling some remorse when he was outside and realises he might have startled Cas. He pushes down the urge to run back down and check he's all right; as soon as he sees Baby, he feels minutely better and as he slides behind the wheel and starts her engine he feels some of his tension ebb away. Perhaps his Sasquatch of a brother was right, and a breather would do him some good.

He ends up losing track of time, and being away from the bunker for close to four hours in total. He spends an age choosing clothes for Cas. A pair of jeans, two pairs of sweatpants because he knows Cas won't be up to much for a while and lounging about in jeans is just plain uncomfortable, some plain t-shirts and sweaters, and a hoodie. He pays, leaves the thrift store, and heads across the street to buy socks and underwear, because the angel has absolutely nothing of his own. That thought makes Dean’s heart clench, and he heads back to the thrift store to buy a few more t-shirts and comfy things for Cas, just because he deserves it and he should have things to call his own. After that, he stows the bags in the Impala and heads to a grocery store with the intent on buying as much food as he can carry. He wants to spoil his angel, do whatever he can to help him heal, and he hopes that bringing him meals he can keep down and enjoy is a good way to start. He fills his basket with bacon, maple syrup, the ingredients for homemade pancakes, chicken soup, burgers and all the trimmings, then doubles back for a second basket and throws in enough fruit and veggies to keep Sam going for a month. Cas seemed to like the fruit smoothies Sam made for him, so he made sure he had enough in his basket to make probably fifteen or twenty. Maybe a few more at a push. He also loaded iced coffee and a crate of beer in, then staggered to the desk to pay with his forearms burning under the weight. He chucks it all into the trunk of the Impala then, just as he's about to get in, slams the door and goes back because he remembers Cas liking burritos and PB&J, so he buys everything to make them too. The Winchesters don't have much money, they never have - and they have even less now but Dean doesn't care. He's doing this for Castiel.

He's clueless really, he thinks as he starts the drive home, about how to help Cas. Sam has downloaded a ton of research about heroin withdrawal, so much so that he's almost confident they can help the angel through that part. But the rest of it…Cas had seemed so lost when he looked at Dean, his kisses had been so desperate, that it scared Dean to his core. What Castiel must have been through in that…that _whorehouse_ …

Dean shudders and grips the wheel tightly. That was the first time he had allowed himself to acknowledge that Cas had been living in a cheap, filthy brothel housing male prostitutes, and by that logic it meant Cas had also succumbed to prostitution to survive. But the drugs coursing through him, the multitude of marks on his body…it was clear it hadn't been consensual, likely from the word go, and that turns Dean’s stomach. The thought of other men touching Cas against his will, holding him down, forcing him to…

Dean pulls the car over to the side of the road, cutting up a truck and flipping the driver off as he honks angrily. Seconds later, he's out of the car and vomiting violently in the long grass, on his knees, cheeks wet with tears. He's spent the last few days pushing these thoughts away, focusing all his energy on Castiel’s drug addiction and deliberately avoiding thinking of what else his lifestyle had entailed over the last few months, and now that it's finally hitting him he can barely stand the pain. Images are assaulting him, of Cas forced to perform sexual acts on strangers, of him taking punches for not complying, of him tied down and raped while he begged for it to stop. Dean is sick again, bile and the remnants of the take-out coffee he had stopped for coming back up and burning his throat. Cas abused and alone, frightened, and lost without the hunters; the only people he had grown close to during his years on earth. Dean heaves again, remembering Castiel’s expression when he was asked to leave. Remembering how the angel had done it dutifully without complaint and without asking Dean why. A frightening thought hits Dean then: was that how Cas had reacted when he was drugged and used against his will? Dutifully, like he thought he was just meant to follow commands and nothing else? Oh God. Dean collapsed back against Baby, his head in his hands. Cas apologising to him, crying and telling him he was sorry, had he been referring to that? Dean didn't know, and the horrifying possibilities clouding his mind now we're becoming too much. He needed to get back to the bunker, to see his angel and reassure himself that Cas was safe. That whatever he had been through, whatever he had done, that it was all over now and it was time to put it all in the past.

He dumps everything in the kitchen and wanders about the bunker, agitated. He wants to knock on Cas’ door, but it's quiet in his room and he doesn't want to disturb the angel if he's sleeping. Then again, what if he's ill, or scared? But Sam’s with him, Sam can comfort him, it doesn't have to be Dean…aside from the fact that it does. Castiel and Dean, they belong together and Dean can't shake the feeling that he should be in there holding Cas, shushing his nightmares and wiping his tears.

Dean tries to settle in the library, picking up book after book in an attempt to calm his mind and distract him from his insurmountable guilt. Cas must _hate_ him, how could he not? But the sad, desperate kisses seemed to say otherwise but then, Cas hasn't really been in his right mind when he had done that, had he? Dean should have stopped it, but he didn't and that weighed on him as well.

He gives up, tosses the book aside and screeches his chair back, heading for Cas’ room. Being this far away from his hurting angel for so long just feels _wrong_. He pauses outside, listening for any conversation or sounds of distress and, hearing nothing, he nudges the door open.

The wave of jealousy he feels is totally irrational, and some part of him knows it, but it hits him with tidal-wave force regardless and he has to grip the doorframe to stop himself from lunging into the room and doing something he knows he would regret. Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed up near Cas on the pillows, leaning back against the wall and the angel is curled against his side. Sam’s arm is around Cas, his hand in his hair, and the other is stroking his track-marked arm where it lies across Sam’s stomach. Sam is listening to something Cas is saying, through chapped lips, but it's too quiet for Dean to hear. It's too intimate, much too intimate for Dean’s liking and he can barely contain a growl - in fact he clearly doesn't contain it because both the angel and his brother glance up at him and Castiel’s face snaps with shock. He flinched visibly, pulling away from Sam and in on himself, dragging the covers up and for a moment he looks terrified of Dean. Sam sits up, and in reaction to the sudden movement Castiel brings an arm up to shield his face, clearly expecting a blow. All anger rushes out of Dean so fast he sways, dizzy, and is beside Cas’ bed in an instant while Sam sends him a furious death glare.

“Cas, I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” He gently pulls the angel’s arm down, away from his face, and Cas’ wary blue eyes settle on him.

“You're angry, why are you angry?” It comes out in a rush, Cas’ voice still hoarse from disuse and days of coughing and vomiting.

“I'm not. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me.” Dean strokes his hair then his cheek and, after a minute, Cas leans into his touch and closes his eyes, shuddering. “You've done nothing wrong. I'm sorry.”

Sam retreats to the kitchen, shooting Dean a baleful look which he steadfastly ignores. He can explain everything to his brother later - if he can work out how to put it into words. He hears cupboard doors open I've and closing, the sound of carrier bags rustling, and moments later realises that Castiel’s breath has evened out and he's fallen asleep using Dean’s palm as a pillow. Dean stares down at him, a fresh wave of emotion creating and breaking as he strokes Cas’ cheek with his thumb. The angel looks a little better, with more colour in his cheeks and the frown lines between his brows are smoother in sleep. Dean takes Cas’ hand with his free one and kisses his fingertips, feeling Cas shift and sigh a little in his sleep.

Dean stays with him all night, awake and watching over him, and Cas doesn't have a single nightmare.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the pairing tags: There's some pretty dirty (consensual) Cas/Benny lovin’ in the second part of this chapter, so if that's not your thing then please feel free to skip.

**February**

On day five, Castiel is finally well enough to get out of bed and have a shower. Dean helps him to his feet, strips the bed while Cas watches and attempts to help - Dean gently but firmly tells him to sit down and wait until he's done so he can help him to the bathroom. He's had to almost carry the angel to the bathroom and back over the last few days - not counting the times he's had to sit Cas up and strip the sheets because he's woken to them stained with urine, memories which he forces out of his mind because Cas would be so humiliated if he knew.

He helps Cas down the corridor, one arm around the angel’s waist and Cas’s arm slung across his shoulders with his hand clasped firmly in Dean’s. He’s pale and shaky, but seems to grow stronger with each step. Dean sits him down on a chair in the bathroom, wraps a robe around him as he shivers, and turns the water on to warm up. He's not sure what to do next, if he should let Cas shower alone or if he should strip down and get in with him, in case he collapses. The decision is taken from him when he takes Cas’ hand and the angel pulls his fingers close to his own lips and whispers against them, eyes closed.

“Don't leave me, Dean. Please. I can't do this on my own, I can't.” Castiel’s voice cracks and Dean swears he hears his heart mimic it. He moves his fingers lower, under Cas’ chin, and tilts his head up to see the blue eyes brimming with humiliated, unshed tears.

“Of course I won't leave, baby,” he kneels in front of the angel and rubs his shoulders, soothing him as tremors rock his battered body. “I'm here, whatever you need. I'll help you. Come on.” He helps Cas stand, and the angel goes rigid when Dean’s hands slide to the waistband of his sweatpants. “We can't shower with clothes on, Cas. Hey,” he cups Castiel’s face and gazes deeply into his fearful eyes. “You know I won't ever hurt you, right?” Cas nods shakily. “If it gets too much, tell me and we can stop immediately. All right?”

It takes a while to get them both into the shower. Cas keeps stopping Dean, gripping his wrists as he slowly strips them both of their clothing - and in doing so, realises just how badly they both need a shower, they stink - but always nods for him to continue after a moment of deep breathing with closed eyes. Finally, Cas is naked and trembling, his hands clasped over his groin in an attempt at modesty, and he's staring firmly at a point somewhere over Dean’s right shoulder. Dean manoeuvres them into the shower, making sure the water temperature is just right and not too hot, and moves Cas gently until he's facing the wall with Dean at his side, and slowly wipes weeks worth of dirt and sweat from his angel’s skin, watching as the taut muscles start to relax under his touch. He turns Cas this way and that, massaging shampoo into his hair and rinsing it out, soaking up handfuls of body wash and rubbing it into Castiel’s arms, stomach, thighs and back. He turns Cas to face him, stroking his back gently and wants nothing more than to kiss him when Cas speaks.

“Can…c-can I ask you something?”

Castiel’s hands clench against Dean’s chest, his gaze on the hunter’s collarbones as Dean runs soap-slick hands down the angel’s back, trying not to cringe at the myriad of raised scars marring what had been beautifully smooth skin. Cas has a particularly nasty scar on his ribs, his left side, and he cringes away whenever Dean’s fingers brush over it. Either it's still tender - and it's evident that it's still not fully healed - or it brings back memories Cas would much rather forget.

“Of course, Cas, anything.” Dean reaches for the shower gel but Cas’ next words bring his hands sharply back to the angel’s hips to steady them both as he's sure his world rocks beneath him.

“When do I have to leave again?”

Cas is blinking back tears, the frown lines between his brows deep, and he sniffles on his next inhale. His voice is firm enough - he's trying to be brave - but Dean can hear the sadness and uncertainty behind it and his heart aches. He hesitates for just a second, then wraps his arms around the angel’s waist and pulls him close. Castiel’s skin is wet and hot against his, their hip bones pressing together firmly, and under any other circumstances Dean would be dying to slide his hands lower and bring Cas endless amounts of pleasure, but the thought of anything remotely sexual doesn't enter his mind. Cas tenses, ready to pull away, then it's as though his energy fails him and he collapses forward against Dean, would have fallen if it weren't for Dean’s firm grip, and buries his face in Dean’s bare chest. The water pounds down on them, still warm and cleansing, and Cas starts to cry quietly against Dean’s skin, starting a litany of quiet pleas.

“I don't want to go, Dean, not this time….please, let me stay for a while, just for a few days…I'll do whatever you want, please…please, Dee, I haven't got anywhere else to go…I can't go back there, I can't…”

And at that, Dean can't hold back his tears. His legs give out and he lowers them both to the floor of the shower, pulling Cas close to him to lie between his legs as the angel sobs against him, and Dean lets his own sorrow out as he rubs Cas’ shoulders and strokes his hands through his hair, down his back to his hips and trails fingers up his chest, touching Cas everywhere he feels is safe, to let him know he's not alone and to try and keep him grounded. Cas curls in on himself, pressing into Dean’s gentle touches, and his sobs become outright howls of grief as his whole body jerks and arches with the force of it all.

“You're not going anywhere, Cas, not this time.” Dean’s voice is shaky but he continues regardless. “This is your home, and I should never have asked you to leave. It was the most selfish, idiotic, downright wrong thing I've ever done and if I could take it all back then I would. I never want you to leave, never. Cas,” Dean takes Cas’ red, tear-streaked face in his hands and draws him up so they're inches apart, blue eyes locked with emerald, the grief between them both so thick it's almost suffocating. Water is running down Cas’ cheeks from his soaked hair, droplets collecting on his pale skin, lips bitten and swollen, and despite everything Dean thinks he looks perfect. Dean doesn't mean to say it; the words just spill out. “I love you, Cas. So much. With everything I am. I can't lose you again. Please, Cas,” and he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the angel’s mouth. “Please don't ever leave me again.”

They stay that way for a long time, on the wet ground in the shower curled around each other, trading fearful, broken kisses and Cas sobbing quietly against Dean’s skin. Dean tells him over and over how much he loves him, how special he is, and how needed. Eventually the water runs cold and goose flesh rises quickly on the angel’s skin; Dean bundles them both into towels and robes and carries Cas bodily back to his room where they lie on their sides facing one another, legs intertwined and stroking each other's faces and lips with gentle, loving touches. They fall asleep staring into each other's eyes, and Dean is sure Cas whispers that he loves him too just as the angel’s baby blues fall closed and his breathing evens out.

**October**

Cas works the club three nights a week now. He's good at it, and his handler showers him with praise at the amount of money he makes for him. Cas has grown to crave the kind words just as much as the pulsing ecstasy in his veins, ecstasy that fades to blissful numbness as the needle is withdrawn and he lies back, ready for whatever his client wants. He has a few regular clients who have come to him three or four times now, who enjoy taking him roughly and dosing him with whatever drugs they can access to make him docile and amenable to whatever they request. Cas is used to the ache between his legs and the soreness in his jaw now; he sometimes works five or six clients a night, and those nights he goes back to his room dazed with exhaustion and more often than not will find Benny there, waiting for him.

Benny has grown fond of the awkward, shy angel and he and Cas have grown close as the weeks go by. They spend their days curled around each other, passed out, and when Cas comes in from a shift at the club Benny always nudges him onto his stomach and strips him naked to give him a back rub, massaging away the knots in Castiel’s shoulders and lower back, and cleaning him up between his legs as best he can with a damp cloth and firm, gentle fingers. It's nothing sexual, never has been. Until now.

It's an idle Wednesday morning, and Cas is spread out on his stomach in their room on the dirty mattress they share with Adam, the chill of the air biting at his skin, as Benny straddles his hips and works deeply at Cas’ shoulders. His hands move down, to the angel’s back and hips, and Benny slides down to kneel between spread, bitten-raw thighs and caresses the skin of Castiel’s ass. He traces indent after indent left behind by rough teeth, and Castiel shivers. He hates being bitten.

Cas shifts, and Benny’s hand slips between his cheeks to find his entrance, slack and wet from multiple clients taking their pleasure from the angel's body. This is familiar territory - Benny normally checks he isn't bleeding or hurt before wiping him down, but today something feels different. The air between them is charged, neither of them have spoken a word to each other since Cas fell into Benny’s arms, and Benny’s fingers are gentle and probing. Cas is enjoying it, and parts his legs just a little more. It's nice to be touched gently, to have his skin stroked, and to know he isn't going to be hurt. Benny strokes over his slick, swollen hole with a calloused thumb, drawing a murmur of pleasure from Castiel, who folds his arms and pillows his head on them, enjoying the sensation of being played with. Benny repeats the motion, watching as the slack hole tenses at the threat of intrusion. Cas is pink and puffy from hours of taking cock, and Benny massages slowly, enjoying the sighs from the younger man and the arch of his hips.

“You sore, sugar?”

Cas makes a noncommittal noise; it’s neither confirmation or denial. Benny’s fingers feel good, and he doesn't want him to stop. The tip of Benny’s thumb penetrates him easily, and the older man works him open gently with slow thrusts and twists of his wrist, probing deep inside him and tugging at his rim. It doesn't take much effort on Benny’s part: Cas has had a long night, and within minutes Benny has two fingers deep inside the angel.

“You're so wet, darlin’. How many boys you been playing with tonight?”

Cas shrugs. “Lost count.”

“Damn.”

Benny twists his wrist and Cas jerks in a breath. He pulls his hand away completely, but before Cas can complain he feels Benny’s hands spreading his cheeks, exposing him completely to the older man’s piercing gaze. He hears Benny’s breath hitch then, before he can even hazard a guess at what might happen next, Benny leans down and licks a hot, wet stripe right across Castiel’s hole and they both groan simultaneously.

“Fuck, Benny…fuck…”

Cas moans loudly as Benny’s licks at him with his tongue flat, sucking gently at his rim, before dipping inside the angel and pressing his tongue as deep as it will go. Cas writhes; Benny holds him open with his hands splayed across Castiel’s skin and eats him out slowly as the angel mewls and gasps beneath him. Pleasure is pulsing in Cas’ groin, building gently, although he knows he probably won't come. The drugs have him too muted and numb to reach climax, but damn it feels so good that he doesn't ever want it to stop. Benny rubs at his hole with wet fingers, pulling back to take a breath before pressing deep with his mouth again. He pushes one of Castiel’s legs out to the side and draws his knee up to get better access and Cas groans as the hot, wet tongue inside him presses deeper. Fuck, he can't remember ever feeling this good. It hits him that he's not just wet from lube: three men have come inside him at the club, and Benny must be tasting it - he gasps and jerks at that thought, wondering if he should pull away and tell Benny, but the other man must know, surely. Cas’ line of thinking is brought to a firm end when Benny sinks three fingers deep into him alongside his tongue, drawing a cry from the angel.

“Oh fuck, Benny…inside me, please…”

“I am inside you, sugar.” Benny smiles against his entrance, rubbing Castiel’s prostate gently and Cas keens.

“No…your cock…I want you to fuck me.”

“You sure?”

Another deep lick, another press to that spot inside him that makes stars explode behind his vision. He's hard, the pleasure muted but present, and he wants more.

“Benny, please!”

“Give me a minute, pretty, I'm busy back here. I'm a big guy, and I don't want to hurt you.”

Cas twists, reaching behind him to grab Benny’s wrist in one hand and his own bent thigh in the other.

“You won't. I'm so ready for you. Fuck me, I know you want to. Come inside me. Soak me with your come, make me all wet and messy just how I like it.” Cas has his whore mouth on now, saying the things he's sure the older man wants to hear, his own desperation to feel wanted and to enjoy himself for once overriding all his other senses, and by the low grunt drawn out of Benny’s mouth he knows he's aimed correctly.

“Damn you, boy, you're such a slut.”

It's said with affection, and Benny sits up between Cas’ spread legs, finger fucking him roughly as the angel wails below him and pleads for more. Benny spreads three fingers inside Cas, opening him up, and adds the thumb of his other hand, fucking the angel hard and playing with him until he's a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Fingers are withdrawn, Benny uses the residual come on his fingers from Cas’ clients to slick himself, then he's pressing the head of his cock to Castiel’s opening and they both groan as the tip pushes in. He hadn't been lying: he was big, and Cas pants as the burn. Benny leans his weight on Cas’ lower back, pushing in in one slow, persistent movement until he's deep inside the younger man and they both let out a breath neither realised they were holding. Benny lets Cas adjust for a moment, then shifts to lie down on the angel’s back, propping himself up on his hands so he doesn't crush Cas, and starts to thrust gently, in and out of the hot body below him. Cas gasps and moans perfectly, the pleasure between his legs building and cresting, sending warmth and enjoyment to every nerve ending in his body. It feels so good, and he closes his eyes, losing himself in the pleasure of getting slowly fucked by the one man he considers a friend. He feels connected to Benny deeply, every thrust of the man’s cock reaching deeper inside him, and he whimpers out a sob as Benny takes both his hands in his, either side of his face, and presses kisses to his neck.

It's sensual, slow, and almost romantic. Benny takes his time fucking Cas, writhing with him on the bed and letting the angel move against him in any way he likes, drawing out his pleasure. He cards his hands through Castiel’s hair, kisses his neck and turns his head so he can press kisses to his cheek and jaw. Cas makes pretty mewling sounds, arching his hips and whining, and eventually Benny is struggling to hold back. He's not as high as Cas is, and he's chasing his orgasm.

“Come in me, Benny,” Cas murmurs against his mouth, head turned as far as he can to accept sinfully hot kisses, and Benny dips his tongue into the angel’s mouth, tasting him as he thrusts harder, grinding against the man below him, his breathing hard and every muscle tightening.

“You sure, sugar? Ah, fuck…God…”

Cas feels it as Benny spills into him, pushing in deep and stilling, pulsing spurt after spurt of his release deep into his body. He moans at the feeling, as Benny grips both his hands and pants against his neck, kissing Castiel’s sweaty skin and moving his hips in slow figure eights as aftershocks shudder through him.

“Damn, boy, you're incredible.”

Benny kisses him, and collapses on top of him only just keeping his weight on his hands so Cas isn't crushed beneath him. They lie like that for a while, Benny grinding his hips occasionally and Cas murmuring in pleasure.

“You didn't come.” Benny pulls out eventually and sits up, wiping the sweat from his face and running a hand through his hair. “Too doped up?” At Cas’ nod, he makes a sympathetic face. “Thought so. Next time, sugar, pleasure is all yours.” He takes his time cleaning Cas up, kissing every available inch of skin and wiping away the evidence of what they've done together until Cas is starting to drift off. Benny spends a while rubbing Cas’ shoulders and back, telling him he's okay and he's safe for now, and that Benny won't let anyone come and hurt him; he can sleep. It's all right, just for a while.

A sound at the door makes Cas reach for the sheets and drag them up over himself, closing his eyes as Adam’s whiny voice cuts through his haze and asks what they're doing.

“Nothing that concerns you, boy.”

There's a slap and a yelp, the sound of Benny whacking Adam on the ass, and Cas falls asleep to the sound of Benny’s low, rumbling laughter washing over him, a contented smile tugging at his lips.


	9. Chapter 9

**February**

Cas isn't talking much. He's more coherent and lucid than he has been the past few days, and with that seems to come a deep depression combined with the awareness of where he is and what has happened to him. He’s developed an unshakeable habit of having two, sometimes three showers a day. Sam and Dean don't have it in them to complain about the hot water being used up - there is very little they will say no to where the angel is concerned. He spends the rest of his days either cooped up in his room, in bed but not asleep, or in the library staring at open books in his lap with unseeing eyes. He answers anything asked of him in monosyllabic, muted tones, but doesn't offer any conversation or anything other than a simple yes or no, and he struggles to meet their eyes for more than a couple of seconds. Dean is concerned, of course, but takes a different tactic to Sam who thinks that getting to the root of exactly what Cas went through is the key to helping him heal. Dean thinks they just push on, and try not to relive what had to be some of the worst experiences of Castiel’s long life. 

“We know what happened to him, Sam.” Dean argues, fists and jaw clenching, determined not to have this conversation. “We know the bastards kidnapped him and forced him to do…stuff…”

“Exactly. Stuff.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, looking agitated. “And we have no idea what kind of stuff, or how it's affecting him. We could-”

“You could just ask.”

The gravelly voice from the map room makes both brothers jump, and Dean is on his feet in an instant. Cas looks pale and drawn, but a world away from how truly awful he had looked when Dean had carried him into the bunker over a week ago. He's wearing the sweatpants Dean had bought for him, along with a white Henley and a hoodie with the sleeves tugged down over his fingers. He's a bit unsteady on his feet, gripping the back of a chair to aid him, but the fact that he got up, showered and dressed on his own is a huge victory. Cas doesn't meet their eyes; instead he focused intently on the table in front of them, but Dean is quick to his side. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Is there…” he flounders, clearly uncertain, and Dean encourages him with a smile. “Anything to eat?”

“Yes! Of course! Anything you want!” Dean can barely contain his enthusiasm, and feels a bit abashed when Cas looks unnerved by it. Sam appears at his side and smiles gently at the angel. 

“We have plenty of food, Dean went shopping. What sort of thing do you fancy?” 

They walk together towards the kitchen, Dean following at a slightly slower pace. He hadn't meant to freak Cas out, but the angel’s eyes had looked a little too wide and scared with his delighted outburst, and Dean is concerned about his own ability to deal with Castiel’s recovery. Sam has always been the sensitive one, the one so good with feelings and emotions, while Dean just pushes on and leaves the emotions to take care of themselves: usually in the form of alcohol, hustling pool, or ganking stuff. 

Not for the first time, Dean is uncertain when it comes to Cas. But this uncertainty is flanked by something else: that Sam is going to be the one Cas really leans on, and that Dean will be pushed into the background. And as selfish as that is, Dean needs to be needed. He needs Cas to need him. 

Sam is making pancakes and chattering away, Cas is sitting quietly staring at his hands and nodding every now and again, and Dean stands to the side and watches. It isn't as though there isn't room for him. But also, there doesn't seem to be much of a gap without him. 

**December**

Cas is lost. It's freezing, ice on the ground, he's barely dressed, and is starting to panic. He trusted Adam, he _trusted_ him, and now look what's happened. 

He turns down another street which looks exactly the same as all the others, then makes a left, trying to hold in his rising fear. He's in a really, really bad neighbourhood and the men he passes all leer at him and try to grope him. It's dark, most of the streetlights are broken, and he's well and truly in trouble. He's shaken off a few men who were following him a couple of streets back, but every ten minutes someone is grabbing him and trying to drag him away into dingy doorways with them. Fucking Adam, he should never have left the hotel with him, _never_. Adam has become increasingly jealous of Castiel over the previous weeks, snapping at him and making cutting comments about him being nothing but a cheap whore and fucking his way into the boss’ top spot. Cas has ignored it all, but thinking back now it sends a cold feeling through him. Adam had led him from the hotel under the pretence of meeting his handler to work a client together, down alley after alley until Cas had no idea which way was up, then Adam had vanished. Fuck. Cas has let himself get played _again_. He’s so, so stupid. 

He turns a corner and walks straight into the firm chest of a man twice his size, sending them both stumbling. He mumbles an apology and tries to step around the man, but his arm is taken and he's slammed roughly into the wall, face first. He hisses in reaction, trying to twist away, but he's held firmly in place by a hot hand on the back of his neck. 

“Should have been more careful, you little cunt,” a voice sears into his ear, cruel and mocking, and Cas aims a clumsy kick backwards, his foot meeting thin air. Someone to his left laughs. 

“Cute. I love it when they struggle.”

“Hey, you know what? He's one of those sluts from that place around the corner,” a man’s grainy voice spits in his ear. His arm is twisted up a little higher and he grunts in pain. Around the corner, he knew he was almost back. “I'm sure he is. Seen him around here before, normally working corners and definitely not,” a wet tongue laps at his ear and Cas shudders. “Alone.”

Cas takes the opportunity and goes with it: he slams his head backwards and both feels and hears the man’s nose break and blood splatter the back of his neck. He hears a dull cry from the other guy, but before they can grab him again he twists free of the loosened grip and makes a run for it. He charges out of the alley and shouts of fury follow him, and turns down the next street on the left and - yes! It's the right one. He's back. He's home…

He shoves the door open, relief flooding him as he steps across the threshold - he's made it back to the closest thing he has to a home, and he made it unscathed. The hotel is warm - well, warmer than outside - and he starving. He can go upstairs and find Benny, bitch about Adam and his jealousy, then they can get something to eat together. 

He turns to shut the door behind him, only to be met with the cold eyes of his handler, and a rough hand gripping his shoulder. Before he can speak, a groan is punched out of him as something blunt connects with his cheek and sends him crashing sideways, collapsing onto the cold tiled floor. He reels, stunned, and before he can clear his blurred vision a hand takes his jaw in an iron grip. Blood fills his mouth and his tongue meets with cracked enamel on the inside his mouth - the blow has been hard enough to break two of his teeth. He's hauled up onto his knees, blearily makes out the silhouette of Adam standing with his arms folded a few feet away, then a boot comes up and collides with his jaw and he goes back hard, his head cracking against the floor, arms out as though he's being crucified. He can't see, can't speak, can barely think as lights are turned on above him and he slowly focuses on blank faces of the other boys in the hotel on the stairs, watching. Benny is among them, horror-struck. 

“Well, well,” his handler speaks slowly, sneering down at him and circling his prone body slowly, coming to a stop somewhere above Cas’ head. “Thought you'd try for the great escape, did you?”

What? Cas shakes his head, trying to clear it, and earns a kick to the ribs. He hadn't been trying to escape. Adam…where was Adam? Why wasn't he setting things straight? 

“No! No, I wasn't trying…” Cas coughs, hard, choking a little on the blood in his mouth. “I wasn't trying to leave, I swear. Adam, tell him-”

“Oh, Adam has told me. He's told me everything, Clarence.” His handler kneels down beside him, gripping Castiel by the hair and yanking his head back to expose his throat. Blue, frightened blue eyes meet cold slate ones and Cas whines in fear. “He's told me how you've been wanting to leave for weeks, just waiting for the right moment. How you thought gaining my trust would help you, so you've played your part like a pro. Well, I suppose your little attempt failed, did it? Realised you're nothing but a cheap slut with nowhere to go so you may as well return and expect me to welcome you home with open arms? Is that it?”

“No…”

Castiel’s protest is cut off as his handler lifts his head and slams it, hard, onto the tiles with a crack. His words and breath are knocked from him and his vision blurs. His handler stands up and disappears above him once again. 

“I think Clarence needs teaching a lesson, don't you, boys?” His handler’s boot comes down onto Cas’ forehead, holding him in place. He can't hold in a whine of fear, as a gun is levelled into his field of vision, doesn't dare move to sit up or twist away. “Benny, come here.” 

There's utter silence in the foyer. Nobody moves. They've all seen it too many times: boys who have tried to run, being gunned down or beaten to death. Cas just never thought it would happen to him. He's tried so hard to behave, to work hard, to be good at what he does even though it's killing him from the inside out. It's the only life he has now, and he desperately wants to live. Cas tries to control his panicked panting, and his handler growls. 

“Benny. Now.” 

Cas can't see, his handler’s boot blocking most of his vision, but he hears Benny’s footsteps as he approaches slowly, dragging his heels. He tries to speak again, protest his innocence and tell his handler that he wasn't trying to leave, he thought he was going to work a job and he's sorry, he's so sorry, but the words won't come. Benny’s familiar black boots appear next to his face and he hears his friend mutter something quietly. His cheeks are wet with tears; he hasn’t even realised he’s crying. 

“You think I don't know what you and this little whore here have been up to?” His handler is snarling, and Cas tries not to panic. “You think I don't know you've been fucking his pretty, wet little hole every night when he comes in from earning his fucking keep? This one,” the boot presses down with more force and Cas whines. “Has always been a noisy little slut; the whole goddamn building knows when you've got your cock in him, Benny, he just can't keep quiet. He just loves being used far too much. Now,” the pressure on his forehead is released somewhat and Cas reaches up reflexively to grip his handler’s foot. He earns a kick to the temple for his efforts, and his ears ring. “I said he needs teaching a lesson, don't you agree?”

There's a snap, the sound of a gun’s safety being removed, and Castiel’s entire body tenses. 

“Benny, I think he's earned a few broken ribs for that little escape attempt, don't you?”

Silence. Cas pants, terrified, drenched in cold sweat, helpless to defend himself from his position flat on his back with his legs apart. Not that he would even dare try... 

“Do it, Benny.” The voice is cold, cruel, and leaves no room at all for argument. He hears Benny mutter something unintelligible in response. “Refuse, and I'll put a bullet between his eyes. Understand? Now, do as you're told. Show him where his place is.”

Benny comes into Castiel’s field of vision and the angel whimpers, knowing what's coming. Benny’s face is carefully blank, but his eyes flicker sadly as he stares down at the frightened man on the floor below him. He presses the heel of his boot into Cas’ chest, on his left side where his ribs have been broken countless times before, and Cas can't stop a choked gasp from escaping him. 

“Benny please, no, please don't…”

“I'm so sorry, sugar,” and he pushes down, hard, grinding his heel into Cas’ chest and the angel cries out as pain lances through him. He can feel his bones give in, crushing against each other and he yelps, moaning in agony, trying to wriggle away. His handler kicks him again, and Benny staggers away with a horrified expression, appalled at what he's just done to his friend. Cas pants, trying to curl up on his uninjured side, but he's pushed back to stare up at the ceiling and out of the corner of his eye he sees Adam looking pale and shocked. 

“I don't think you did a very good job there, Benny.” His handler is speaking again and Cas groans, drawing in a shaky, agonised breath as heat flares through his side with each inhale. He can feel bruises forming already. “I didn't even hear his ribs crack. Try again. Harder.”

“No, he's had enough, please-”

“Try. Again. Don't make me ask a third time.”

Benny’s boot returns and Cas tries to reach for him but the pain get him first. White-hot, searing agony pulses through him and he howls, hearing the crack and crunch of his ribs breaking under the foot of the only friend he has. The friend who, he knows, is only doing it to save his life but oh _God_ it's _agony_. Voices blur above him and his vision whites out; Benny presses harder, clearly under instruction, and Cas _shrieks_. Then coughs, choking, and his mouth fills with blood. He can't draw breath, feels as though he’s drowning, and doesn't realise that Benny has stepped away. The older man is trying to hold back his tears as Cas arches and shakes on the floor, descending into shock as he coughs mouthful after mouthful of rich, thick blood which drips down his cheeks onto the floor and slicks his lips as he coughs - his broken ribs have punctured his lung and he's choking, unable to breathe. 

Darkness takes Castiel, as Adam collapses in a dead faint on the ground next to him. 


	10. Chapter 10

**December**

Castiel’s handler lets him choke on his own blood for just a little while, shoving Benny away repeatedly and eventually cramming the gun in hard to his temple and threatening to shoot him and his ‘little cunt-whore’ if Benny moves another muscle to try and help Cas. Benny squares up to him, nose-to-nose, breathing hard and swears to every god he knows that one day he will hunt the man down and kill him for what he's done to Cas. To him. To all of them. The scrawny, scraggy excuse for a man laughs, pistol-whips Benny so hard that he crashes to his knees, then takes another look at Cas and sighs. The angel is semi-conscious, chest heaving and blood trickling from his lips as he clings to life, and his handler rolls his eyes, fishing his phone out and pressing a speed-dial number. Benny reaches for Cas. He gets a bullet to the shoulder and goes down hard. 

What seems like hours can really only be minutes, then the door is opening and two men in black trench coats walk in and appraise the scene with cool indifference. Cas is lifted up between them and carried to the nearest bedroom, thrown haphazardly on the bed when're he immediately starts coughing and whining, and his handler strikes him hard across the face to shut him up. He slips back into unconsciousness, the life ebbing slowly from his broken body. One of the men pulls out a black leather pouch and unwraps it on the bed, revealing an array of surgical instruments and rinses his hands with alcohol gel. The other draws up a syringe of morphine, then a second of a creamy white opiate and sets them to one side. Benny, panting, leans against the wall and watches with mounting trepidation; whatever they're going to do to Castiel will either save his life or kill him, and at this point Benny isn't sure which would be kinder. Keeping his friend in this life, this torture, because he knows Cas’ handler won't be kind to him for his apparent escape attempt, or letting him slip away before things can get any worse. At this moment, Benny thinks that although Cas would choose life in a desperate panic, death would be the more sensible option. 

The morphine sinks into Castiel’s veins, followed by the second opiate, chased with some yellow liquid in a short syringe that Benny can't identify. The drugs are back-street anaesthetics, meant to knock the patient out sufficiently enough for quick surgical procedures, and do nothing much to reduce the pain when they wake up. Benny knows Cas is high already - or he was when he left a few hours ago - and the toxic mix of chemicals will send him spiralling; hopefully for long enough for the pain to dull and his healing to get a good head start. 

They work quickly, slicing Castiel’s skin and working their fingers inside him to stem the bleeding and stitch the wound. People mill around the bed, and Benny only catches occasional glimpses of his friend, chalk-white and sedated to the point that he barely looks to be drawing breath, but it beats consciousness and agony. They warn Castiel’s handler that he might not survive the procedure, and that if he does infection might kill him; the warnings are waved away with a snarl of ‘save him, his skinny ass is actually worth something’ and they work a little harder. The floor is splattered with blood and gauze, and used surgical instruments are tossed aside when they've served their purpose, falling to the floor with light tinkling sounds, slick with blood. 

Eventually, the two men pull away and Benny is allowed to approach the bed. As he sinks to his knees and clasps the hand of the pale-faced angel, they retrieve the bullet from his shoulder and tape a pad of gauze over the entry wound, telling him to keep it clean. Benny grits his teeth against the pain, because it's nothing compared to what he's inflicted on Castiel, and silently begs his friend to wake up. Cas’ skin is slick with blood, it's even in his hair and down his legs, and his skin is a terrifying ashen pallor, but Benny can see the subtle rise and fall of his chest that signifies he's still clinging to life. They've done brutal, hasty surgery in a filthy environment to close the gash to his lung, but whether or not it will save him is another matter. The stitches are haphazard, and Benny has to move while they slap a thick bandage on and fix it in place with some tape, chucking the rest of the roll at Benny and telling him to keep an eye on Cas, to make sure he doesn't die. 

Then they're alone in the room together, and Benny lowers his forehead until it's touching Castiel’s cold, sweat-slick shoulder and verbally begs his friend to forgive him. He was trying to save Cas, he thought it was the lesser of two evils. He never thought it would lead to this. He should have let him take a bullet. 

Cas is out for over a day, and when he comes to he's strung out on the cheap anaesthetics that he has no clue where he is or what's happened to him. He's sick all over himself and Benny cleans him up with a heavy heart. The angel’s pupils are so dilated that his eyes appear black, and he can't focus on anything at all. It's achingly similar to when Cas was first brought to the hotel, a day which Benny remembers all too well. He was handsome, still is despite being scarred and emaciated, and a lot of people had assaulted him and taken advantage of his pliant body during his first few hours. Benny had stayed away, reluctant to get too close. He's befriended boys in the past, and its almost always ended badly. But something about Castiel is magnetic, and it hasn't been long before Benny was drawn too close to pull away. 

Cas’ handler shoves Benny roughly aside a few hours later, in order to drag Cas up from the bed and to an upstairs room. The fallen angel is barely clinging to consciousness and can't walk; any attempts by Benny to help are kicked or shoved away, and Cas ends up being dragged up the stairs by two men, one either side of him hauling him roughly up six or seven flights until they're on the topmost floor but one - the floor none of the boys are allowed up to normally, the floor reserved for the more…vigorous clients, who either like their whore to be so drugged up they can't talk or like to hear them scream themselves hoarse until their throats are raw and bloody. Benny is stopped from going up initially, but starts to create such a fuss that their handler rolls his eyes and relents. 

“Doesn't matter what you see, anyway,” he snarls as Benny quickens his step to catch up to where Cas is being half-carried into a particularly filthy and sweat-stinking room. “It won't help him now. Stupid little bitch shouldn't have tried to escape.” He claps Benny on the shoulder as they both stand and watch as Castiel’s underwear is stripped from him and a sheet tossed carelessly over his naked, aching body. He whines, reaching blindly out as though sensing someone near him, and his handler takes the opportunity to step into the room, advance towards the bed and clasp Cas’ hand in both of his. Benny follows, nervous anxiety almost choking him. 

“You're in a bit of a sorry state, Clarence.” The words are soft and soothing, but that glint in the steely eyes is not. “I don't think you should have tried to leave us, do you?”

Cas’ eyes are glassy and wet, and he shakes his head desperately, his skin damp with sweat. He's feverish, panting, and Benny isn't sure if he can understand properly what's being said to him. 

“You're going to make it up to me, aren't you boy?” 

Cas nods, eyes closing helplessly, and his handler strokes his damp hair in faux comfort. 

“Oh yes, I think you're going to work very, very hard to make it up to me. Some of my men have wanted to play with you for months, and you've been teasing them haven't you? Prancing around in next to nothing, letting them listen to your little trysts with your friend Benny here. I think it's about time you made good on those flirtatious little invitations, don't you? Perhaps a little something to remind you who you belong to, first. And put you in your place, exactly where you belong.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, he pulls a heavy metal handcuff and snaps it round Castiel’s wrist. The other end is anchored to the frame of the bed above Cas’ head and the angel is effectively restrained. The man snaps his fingers to one of his goons who Benny has almost forgotten about, and a syringe of dark, very dark amber liquid is pressed into his outstretched palm. Benny’s heart leaps into his throat. Cas is already sedated from the pain medication and antibiotics, and the remainder of the backstreet anaesthesia is still likely flowing through his veins. There's no way of knowing whether or not a shot of heroin will knock him out further, or whether it will kill him. Benny starts to say as much, but his words are lost in the scuffle of the two other men dragging him from the room, snarling threats into his ear. He glances back over his shoulder to see Castiel’s prone body arch and his attempt to pull away as a familiar needle pierces his skin and he's sent spiralling into a heroin-induced haze. He hears the man crouching over Cas his vicious words into his ear and his eyes burn with sadness for his friend

“You're nothing but a backstreet slut, Clarence. I gave you a chance to make me proud, and you threw it in my face. Well, now you'll get to know the real meaning of the word ‘whore’, and I'm never going to let you forget it.”

Later that night, when the drug has mostly worn off, Benny lies in bed with his hands over his ears, desperately trying to block out Castiel’s pleas for mercy, which go ignored and eventually devolve into helpless screams. 

**March**

Dean wakes in the middle of the night to Cas, silhouetted in his doorway. 

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“You don't ever have to ask, Cas. C’mere.”

Dean nods and draws back the covers so the angel can settle in at his side. It's cold in the bunker, and Cas is shivering a little; Dean rubs his arms to generate some heat and Cas lets him. When questioned, Cas confesses to bad dreams and says his chest is hurting him, on his left side. Dean's fingers find the place he indicates, right where a nasty scar mars his perfect skin, and soothes him with gentle touches and sweet kisses to his hair until he drifts off, uneasy but resting, and for that Dean is thankful. Dean caresses every inch of Castiel’s chest and side, feeling the angel shift and sigh in his sleep beneath his touch, and cuddle a little closer. He slides his arm under Cas, turning him towards him and Cas slides an arm across Dean’s chest in his sleep, pressing his face into the crook of Dean’s neck and sighing. Dean slides a hand under Cas’ t-shirt to stroke his back, and the angel relaxes some more, breathing deeply, and Dean enjoys the sensation of warm breath on his skin. Cas is here, he's healing, and he's in Dean’s arms. 

Dean falls asleep after a while, and they wake up at dawn wrapped around each other, content for the first time in many, many months. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags before reading this one, folks.

**March**

“ _Sam_!”

Dean’s voice is raw with terror. It echoes through the bunker, bouncing off the walls and flooding the corridors. He shouts again; in fact, it isn't a shout. It's a scream.

“ _Sam_!”

A drawn-out howl of fear and horror, and Sam’s name is barely recognisable. It reaches the depths of their home, drawing Sam from a deep sleep in which he had been enjoying pleasant dreams of running along the beach with a Labrador retriever at his heel, the sun beating down on him and the salt in the air tasting like freedom.

“ _Sam!”_

He's sitting bolt upright before he's properly awake, and his feet hit the floor as he responds to his brother’s wail, taking only seconds to run down the corridors and reach the kitchen.

“Sam, _please_!”

What he sees stops him in his tracks, and he forgets how to breathe.

Dean is on his knees in the middle of the kitchen, white-faced and stricken, sobbing. Cas is unconscious in Dean’s arms, blood soaking his shirt and sweatpants, streaking Dean’s face and pooling around them. His head lolls back towards Sam, and he's chalk white and doesn't look to be breathing. Dean is panting, tears flowing freely as he tries to gather the unconscious man into his arms and lift him, but he's shaking so much that he keeps falling back to his knees, and every time he does he lets out an agonised cry of failure. Sam is pinned in place just for a second, before he meets his brother’s eyes, wide and glistening with panic, and Dean calls to him, desperate.

Sam approaches, and has to grab one of the pillars to steady himself as he sees Castiel’s arm clutched to Dean’s chest. Dean’s fingers slip on his blood-slick skin, and Sam - normally so strong-stomached and unflappable - almost vomits.

There's a deep gash to Castiel’s left wrist, exposing what Sam thinks is muscle and ligaments, and it's gushing blood over Dean’s hand as he tries frantically to stop it. It's pooling under Cas and spreading, and he thinks the fallen angel’s right wrist is exactly the same: shredded flesh and exposed sinew. Dean is sobbing, gripping Cas desperately and begging for his brother’s help. Through blurred vision, Sam is sure he can see a knife skittered away by the kitchen counter, and suddenly everything comes to a jarring halt as he realises.

Cas has tried to kill himself.

And now, right now, he's dying in Dean’s arms.

**Earlier…**

Cas is doing better. A lot better, in Dean’s opinion. The angel is talking a bit more, asking questions and wanting to help out around the bunker. He's even seen Cas smile once or twice; small, tentative smiles but they're smiles nonetheless. He isn't lounging in bed all day, he's eating, and the tremors wracking his body seem to have dissipated. He seems…just _better_. Dean knows there will be things going on in Cas’ head, memories he won't talk about, but if he can get Cas back to feeling like any semblance of his old self then maybe, just maybe he can help Cas deal with it all.

Unfortunately for both Dean and Castiel, the hunter is only seeing what he wants to see.

Behind closed doors is when Castiel truly succumbs to his pain. It feels like his soul is tearing itself apart, and it's taking all his energy to put on a brave face for Sam and Dean. He can't let them see him crumbling, it would complete his humiliation and he needs them to think he's still worth something. He knows he isn't, knows he's fallen so far that he doesn't deserve their kindness or respect, but he can't bring himself to let it run out. And if they know, truly know what Cas has done and what has been done to him, that respect would die before his eyes. He still doesn't quite believe that they want him to stay, but he replays Dean’s words over and over in his head in an attempt to convince himself of their truth. He knows they care about him; he can see it in their concerned eyes, in the way they've looked after him so well since bringing him back - hell, the fact that they looked for him to begin with is something. But it just doesn't take away the fact that Cas feels broken. Unworthy. Dirty. It's part of the reason behind the long, frequent showers multiple times a day. Scrubbing his skin almost raw under hot water he almost can't stand is the closest he feels to clean, and the longer he goes without doing it the more suffocated, filthy and panicked he feels. But in the privacy and safety of the shower, he can also let his tears fall as he reminds himself of how far he's fallen, and the things he's done to lead him to this place. What would his brothers and sisters think of him now? He doesn't want to be human, he doesn't know how, and the creeping thought that he would be better off dead keeps rearing its ugly head, and Cas is starting to listen. He turns the water a little hotter and whines as it almost scalds him. The pain is welcome: he deserves it. It almost feels cleansing.

When it becomes almost unbearable, and when Cas’ skin is soft and his fingertips wrinkled from the water, he finally shuts the shower off and climbs out unsteadily. He's still shaky, still feels like he has a permanent cold, and constantly seems to be fighting waves of nausea, but the physical effects of his addiction and abuse do seem to be fading. He wipes a layer of steam off the mirror and looks himself in the eyes - always a painful experience. He’s not as thin as he was, no longer emaciated and on the verge of starvation, but his eyes are still sunken and hollow, framed by dark shadows. His lips are chapped and bleeding - he must have bitten them in the shower - and he knows if he starts to examine his body he will see a myriad of deep scars, reminding him of everything that was done to him against his will. He shivers, despite the heat of the room, and dresses slowly, towelling off his hair. Top first, long sleeves to cover the track marks on his forearms. Then the rest. Everything feels like a mammoth task, from putting on his socks to brushing his teeth when he wakes up. As he slides a pair of boxer-briefs up his thighs along with sweatpants he's assaulted by a kaleidoscope of memories of them being pushed down, of his legs being forced apart…

“No.” Cas whispers, fisting both hands and digging them into his eye sockets. He manages to pull his sweatpants up to his far-too-narrow waist before his legs buckle and he drops painfully to his knees, keening quietly. This keeps happening: he’ll be doing something perfectly mundane, like getting dressed, and then with the impact of a punch to the gut he _remembers_ , and it takes his breath away for a time. It's not like he ever forgets; every breath, every step, every movement is loaded with the weight of what's happened, but he can sometimes shove the memories back enough so that he doesn't have to focus on them. He can focus on eating, talking, reading, normal behaviour. But at times like this, they demand his full attention.

He cowers on the floor for a while, trying to pull himself together and failing. He chokes out a low sob, then a louder one as he remembers the first time he was drugged and raped, held down and beaten within an inch of his life. He remembers the fear, the claustrophobia, the shock, and the terrible finality of it all as he realised he couldn't get away. Above him, he thinks he hears a door open but all he can see and feel around him is pain, fear, nameless faces and darkness as he struggles to draw breath. Dean’s told him about panic attacks, about how they could affect him, and perhaps that's what's happening but he can't focus on anything right now but the memory of being terrorised. He chokes, tears pooling on the tiles in front of him as he falls forward onto his hands, his sobs getting louder and more desperate.

A hand comes to his back, soft and gentle and he can hear someone talking.

 _Dean_ …

“…OK, Cas, it's OK, you're safe here…”

 _Safe_ , he's not safe anywhere. The men who kidnapped him will never stop looking for him, he's hunted by heaven for the terrible things he's done…if there's one thing Castiel certainly is not, it's safe.

“Dean…” He's a mess, sobbing and trying to back away from the hunter who appears to be kneeling down in front of him. With some effort, Cas hauls himself to his feet and backs away with wild eyes. Dean is still talking, and has stood up as well to face the frightened angel, but being so cornered in such a small space as the bathroom is only adding to Castiel’s distress.

“…will get better, Cas…anything I can do…will be all right…”

Dean’s words of reassurance fall on deaf ears, but they're enough to draw out of Cas everything he's been feeling, everything that has been eating away at him and weighing him down and he sees Dean’s face snap in shock as a sound akin to a howl is drawn from the angel’s lips.

“You're _wrong_ , Dean! It will never get better, _never_! This is who I am now, this is what I've become and there's no coming back from this; why can't you see that?” Castiel's cheeks are streaked with tears and Dean reaches for him, desperate to embrace him but Cas backs away, looking terrified. “I'm _broken_ , Dean, I'm tainted and I don't want to infect you with my…my _filth_. I brought all this on myself, I deserve everything that's happened to me, it's my cross to bear. My pain to deal with, I know it is. And I need to be strong enough to do that. But I _can't_ , Dean, I can't deal with it, I don't know how. It's consuming me, it's _killing_ me! I never had to deal with human emotions before now and it's just all too much, it's too hard. It's too exhausting, and I've fallen so far…I'm lost, Dean. I'm nothing any more. Nothing to you, nothing to Sam…I'm….I’m…worthless.” Cas hangs his head and gasps, sobbing quietly and Dean reaches out for him again. “You should have left me there to die.”

“Cas, no, _no_! How can you even think that?”

Dean, horrified, moves to grab Cas and it's the wrong thing to do. Cornered, Cas is wild and frightened and reacts instantaneously to Dean with very little control over himself. He's so used to being boxed into corners, to being held down, coerced, forced into situations he hated and despised, and he's used to being threatened. Right now, with the overwhelming pain and distress mounting inside him, he doesn't see Dean as his hunter, as the man who care so deeply for him, trying to comfort and console him. He sees him as a threat.

And Cas shoves his friend, his partner, away from him and shoves him hard. Dean stumbles, and somehow catches his foot and falls, hitting his head against the sink on the way down and lying motionless for a moment, stunned. From above him, he hears a choked sob of despair, then the sound of Castiel’s bare feet on the tiles as he flees down the corridor. Dean turns to lie on his back for a second, seeing stars and reeling from the force of the emotion in Castiel’s broken words. He had no clue his angel was feeling so low, and to hear it from his own mouth punctuated by bitter tears is nothing short of a slap in the face. He feels utterly and completely stupid, lower than ever, for missing out on something so blindingly obvious: that Cas is drowning, and the boys aren't giving him the help he needs.

He drags himself into a sitting position, gingerly touching the welt on the back of his head to check for blood, when a cry from the kitchen has him on his feet and moving in a heartbeat. That had been a cry of pain, a cry of all kinds of pain Dean can ever imagine. It was the sob of someone feeling a part of their soul collapsing, but at the same time it sounded shocked and raw as though someone was also physically hurting. Cas. His Cas. Something clatters in the kitchen and Dean breaks into a run. Oh god, what has he done? Cas…

The angel is hunched over the counter with his back to the door when Dean enters, wild-eyed and frantic, and for a second he just stands and stares at Cas’ trembling shoulders. For a second he doesn't realise what's wrong. Then Cas turns, and Dean isn't exactly sure what hits him first. If it's the chalk-white pallor of Cas’ skin, the blood running with fatal intent down his forearms to slick his hands and drip to the floor, or the knife in his loose grip which is somehow still glinting silver despite all the viscose fluid coating it's razor-sharp blade. It's probably none of those things. It's probably the look in Castiel’s glazed blue eyes as he collapses: shock, pain, heartache, resignation and a soul-deep exhaustion.

Dean is quick, catches him before he hits the ground as the knife skitters away, and as Cas murmurs apologies against his chest and tells Dean he just can't do it anymore, the hunter starts to scream for Sam in terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, given kudos, subscribed...you're all amazing.


	12. Chapter 12

**February**

Cas opens his eyes, to see someone who looks a bit like Benny hovering over him. His voice sounds quite similar too, but before he can make out the words Cas passes out again.

Cas opens his eyes, and sees his handler leaning over him, pressing a glass of water to his lips. Before he can drink enough to quench his ravaging thirst, Cas passes out again.  

Cas opens his eyes, and feels the weight of a hot body on top of him and he’s hurting between his legs. The man fucking him grunts and comes, and Cas passes out again. 

The weeks pass in painful, nauseating blurs. All the days meld into one, and Cas spends most of his time in a distant haze, drugged to the edge of consciousness, and at the mercy of anyone with a handful of dollars to their name. He's unchained from the bed for an hour every day to use the bathroom and eat, but he's so out of it that he struggles to walk without help. Sometimes he's pushed back down on his face instead of on his back, and his other wrist is cuffed. This just means both are sore and abraded instead of one. He feels disconnected from his body when he is vaguely lucid. As though he's watching someone else be repeatedly drugged and raped from a distance high up above the dirty hotel room. As though it isn't him. But as he feels the last of his self-worth ebb away along with the effects of one pretty nasty dose of heroin, he knows it is happening to him. And will continue to happen to him until he succumbs to it all and eventually fades away. 

He begs sometimes. He has no pride left, no shame and no dignity, and sometimes in his more lucid moments he begs to be let go. To go back to what he was doing before, and promises through desperate tears never to try and leave again. His every plea is ignored. 

Cas opens his eyes, to find himself on his knees by the bed, his arm pulled taut and blood dripping from deep lacerations beneath the metal of the cuff. He keens, panicked, struggling to get away, and someone jabs him hard in the neck with a dirty needle, and Cas passes out again. 

Cas opens his eyes, and someone who looks just like his hunter is kneeling over him. He manages to raise his hand to touch the man’s cheek and hears his own voice rasp a couple of words. Above him, another face looks a little like Sam’s, with that floppy hair and pair of concerned shining eyes. Cas smiles, just a little. 

**March**

The extent of the injuries to Castiel’s wrists are far beyond the skills of the brothers, so they do the only other thing they can: Dean lies almost on top of Cas clutching his arms wrapped in towels as the Impala pelts through the town towards the hospital, Sam at the wheel, and neither of the brothers are able to speak. The horror of what Cas has done has numbed them both, rendering them incapable of articulating their thoughts, and the very real fear that he might die is weighing heavily on them as Sam turns a corner and the tyres screech in protest. The back seats of the Impala are soaked with blood, and it's a testament to how much Dean loves the angel that it hasn't even crossed his mind. All he cares about is Cas. 

“Faster, Sam, goddammit!” Dean’s voice cracks with emotion, with terror. “ _Please_!”

Cas is breathing, but it's slow. He's got a pulse, but it's weak. He's bleeding out beneath Dean, unconscious, and the hunter has never felt panic like this. He can't lose his angel. Not like this, not now, not _ever_. He can't. 

At the hospital, Cas is taken from them and they’re forced to wait out in the hall under the bullshit excuse that they aren’t family. They don’t give them much time to explain or protest; the doctors close the doors behind them to work on Cas and Dean punches the wall until his energy gives out and he collapses, Sam’s arms around him and his cheeks soaked with devastated tears. He kneels on the floor of the emergency room and sobs, bloodied hands over his own face, as weeks of tension and trauma work their way to the surface and spill out. Cas, his beautiful, brave, strong Cas has tried to end his life, and Dean hadn't been quick enough to stop him. Sam tries to console him, to rub his back and help him to his feet but Dean shoves him away. This is all his fault, all the blame is his. He asked Cas to leave. He welcomed Gadreel into Sam’s body with open arms, then he did what the wayward angel had asked without question, and now Castiel, his best friend and the love of his life, is dying in a cold hospital bed and it's all his fault. 

He huddles uncomfortably in a plastic chair, head in his hands, and listens as a doctor explains to Sam how concerned they are about Cas. How they're doing all they can for him, but how much the scars on his body are worrying them. Sam draws them further down the corridor, away from his brother, but Dean can still hear snippets of the conversation. Single words and bitten out phrases that chill his blood and make him hang his head between his legs to keep from fainting. 

Rape. 

Human trafficking. 

Prostitution. 

Heroin. 

Suffering. 

And it's that word, _suffering_ , that Dean just can't cope with. Because he could have prevented it, all of it, and he didn't. He let Cas go, and let it all happen. Dean burrows his hot face into his hands, struggling for breath, and does the only thing he can do: wait. 

He waits for what feels like weeks. Sam buzzes around, talking to the doctors and getting them coffee and rubbing Dean’s shoulders when the shaking won't stop, while Dean stares at the floor and waits. He hears a nurse tell Sam something about a blood transfusion, and Sam confesses they are still waiting on test results from the clinic they sent to in Ohio. Sam signs a form and the nurse vanishes. Multiple patients come and go around them and just as Dean is beginning to feel like they've been forgotten, the door shielding Cas from their view opens and a doctor appears, pulling off gloves and shrugging off a bloodstained hospital gown. Dean doesn't need to ask to know who the blood belongs to. The doctor looks so grave that for a second, when Dean gets up to approach him, he's certain the worst has happened and he sways on his feet. Sam’s hands grip his upper arms and the doctor hastens to reassure him that no, Castiel didn't die, that yes, he's going to be all right in time, but that there are some serious questions being asked about his condition and would the boys mind talking him through what has been going on. 

“You know it all already!” Dean bites out, his cheeks burning and his stomach tight with the need to see his angel. “My brother already told you, I heard him! Just let me see Cas, please, let me see my baby.”

The endearment slips out before he can stop it, but fuck it, he doesn't care. He's aching to see Cas, to touch him, to prove to himself that the angel will live and that the doctor isn't lying or that he isn't the victim of some hopeful hallucination. The doctor is frowning at him, and Dean puffs his chest up in petulance. 

“Are you family?”

“Yes.” Dean doesn't skip a beat. “I'm all he has in the world.”

“But are you family? I can't let you see him unless…”

“Yes.” The words leave him before he even knows what he's saying, and he feels Sam shift beside him at his next words. “He's the love of my life, doc, I can't live without him. I need to be beside him, it's killing me being out here. I'll talk to whoever you want, I'll tell you anything you want to know. Just please, _please_ let me see him. I'm begging you, doc, please.” 

And whether it's the harsh, raw, agonised words or the tears in Dean’s eyes, the doctor nods slowly and motions for the brothers to follow him. Sam lingers at the door, and the doctor disappears after a moment, giving them time alone together. A nurse is adjusting some wires attached to a monitor, and gives the brothers a warm, sympathetic smile. 

“He's doing well. But he gave us all quite a scare; you too, I imagine.” Sam nods at her; Dean says nothing, just stares. She's understating the extent of his condition, probably to try and soothe them, but it really isn't working. “Now, can you tell me his surname so I can write it on his chart?”

For a moment, Dean can't think. He can't say ‘Novak’, because that could lead to digging into Cas’ past and if Jimmy’s missing persons ad comes up…he opens his mouth to say…well, he's not sure _what_ he's about to say, but Sam beats him to it. 

“Winchester. His last name is Winchester.” 

Dean chokes a little, overcome with emotion, and the nurse nods and writes it on Cas’ chart then leans down to write on the plastic wristband encircling Castiel’s right arm. Then, with another small smile at the boys and a comforting pat to Sam’s arm, she retreats as well and leaves the three of them alone together. 

Cas looks terrible. His body looks too small for the sheets and blankets surrounding him, and the pallor of his skin is almost the same as the pillow his cheek is resting on. He's asleep, but doesn't look peaceful; his brow is furrowed and there's a definite downturn to his lips that hasn't been present a year ago. He's in a plain hospital gown, with an IV line of fluids disappearing into the back of one hand; Dean knows it's helping him, but the thought of Cas and needles makes him shudder. Both Castiel’s forearms are bandaged, and Dean tentatively takes his left hand and links their fingers together. Cas stirs, murmurs something, and his blue eyes flutter open hazily. 

“D-Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas…it's me.” 

And Dean crumbles. The adrenaline coursing through him evaporates, and he drags a chair up and collapses into it before he falls. Seeing Cas so doped up on painkillers and so fragile is bringing back awful memories for Dean, of finding his angel in such an awful state, addicted to heroin and being used as a sex toy to make money for other people. Dean had vowed never to let Cas be hurt like that again, yet here they are less than a month later - but this time, it’s Cas who’s done it to himself. Cas who had taken a blade to his flesh and opened his veins in an attempt to escape his pain. He grips Cas’ hand as tight as he dares and tries to keep calm. 

“Why, Cas? Why did you do it?” He hears Sam make a noise of disapproval at his question, but it just spills out. He locks eyes with his beautiful angel and reaches forward to brush Cas’ hair off his face and takes up a gentle stroking of his forehead. Cas sighs and leans into the touch. 

“I can't do this any more, Dean. I'm broken. I don't work as a human, it's too hard. I don't belong here. You should have…” Cas cuts himself off with tear-filled eyes and looks away. Dean shudders, knowing exactly what he was about to say, and leans closer, bringing Cas’ hand to his lips and kissing the chilled skin. 

“Don't ever say that again Cas, you hear me? No - don't ever _think_ it again. If we'd known what was going on, we would have come so much sooner…” Dean’s voice cracks and he has to take a minute to pull himself together. Cas has returned his gaze to the hunter’s face, watching him with tired, red-rimmed eyes. “I'm so fucking sorry, Cas. Sorry we left you there for so long. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…”

“Don't, Dean, please…” Cas tries to sit up and fails, too exhausted from blood loss and trauma, and settles instead for cupping Dean’s jaw with his hand. “Please don't do this to yourself. None of this is your fault.”

“It isn't yours either, baby.” Dean turns his head to press a kiss to Castiel’s palm. “We didn't ask for any of this. And I know we can get through it, we just need to try something different. Sam and I…I guess we haven't been giving you the help you need. We can try other things, there are people you can talk to…”

“No.” Cas’ voice is barely above a whisper but the firmness in the one word leaves Dean in no doubt at all. “I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want anyone else knowing. It's…it's bad enough you know…nobody else. I mean it, Dee.” His exhausted eyes are shining and he looks ready to pass out at any second.  

Dean chooses not to mention that the doctors know, and he hears Sam close the door as he leaves to give them some privacy together. He knows his brother will be talking to the doctors, nurses, maybe even the police if the hospital staff have been concerned enough to call them, but he isn't worried. Years of faux-FBI training have been far from wasted; Sam can easily field any awkward questions and then some. He nods, and runs his fingers through Cas’ hair. The angel leans into his touch sadly, closing his eyes and barely holding back tears. Dean doesn't know what to say to comfort his friend, so he says the one thing that's been on his lips for weeks. 

“I love you, Cas.” Dean grips his friend, his lover’s hand as tightly as he dares. Saying the words for the first time feels right, and Cas’ eyes open in shock and glitter with something close to happiness, just for half a second. “If nothing else, please, please remember that. I love you.”

Cas gives a vague, disbelieving half-smile and will barely meet Dean’s eyes. He doesn't move though, still leans into Dean’s touch and Dean plays with his hair and strokes his skin comfortingly. The angel plays with a thread on the sheets, then says, “How did you get in here, anyway? I thought they only allowed family.”

“They do.” Dean smiles, and this time it’s filled with gentle humour as he jokes to Cas: “I told them I was your husband.”

Cas smiles too, faintly, a ghost of what could have been, and turns his head away as his eyes fall closed. And maybe it's the pain medication, or maybe it's his exhaustion talking, but Dean hears him whisper two small words very quietly as he drops off to sleep:

“I wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Group hug, anyone?


	13. Chapter 13

“He doesn't want to be here."

"I know."

"So why can't we take him home? He'll be better there?"

"He won't, Dean, you know that as well as I do. He's struggling, and I know he hates it here but it's the best place for him right now. They can look after him. They're doing a great job already."

"Maybe. But he's not the only one who hates it here. Hospitals give me the creeps, always have." Silence. "What if he never gets better, Sammy? I can't lose him. Not again, not for real this time."

"He will. I promise."

"You can't promise something like that."

"Why don't you go home? Shower, take a nap-"

"No. I'm not leaving him."

"He's sleeping, Dean, I can-"

"I said no, Sammy. No."

Dean pushes away from the wall he's been leaning against and stalks off down the corridor back towards Castiel's room, Sam watching him walk away with a heavy heart. He's almost as worried about his brother as he is about the angel. Dean is harboring such heavy guilt over everything that has gone on, and Sam knows that if Cas doesn't make it then Dean won't either. They've been bonded together since Hell, but these days it's different. They're in love, although to his knowledge Cas hasn't voiced it yet, and Sam is fully aware that losing the angel would absolutely destroy his brother.

He follows Dean at a slower pace, stopping to chat to a doctor about how Cas is getting on and is handed some information leaflets and web addresses for rape recovery and resources for former addicts. He feels sick to his stomach as he reads them, but knows they will help Cas probably more than he and Dean have been, no matter how good their intentions were. The doctor gives Sam a hearty clap on the shoulder and tells him what a good friend he is, and Sam can only return a brittle, hollow smile with the feeling that if he and Dean were such good friends then Cas wouldn't have been left in that hellhole for so long, nor would he currently be hospitalised with his wrists cut. 

*

The nurses had drawn blood and run a full screening on Cas the day he had come in. The results come back a day later, while Dean is sitting pretending to read a magazine while sneaking constant glances at Cas, who is curled up on his side reading a book Dean had brought him from the hospital library. He sits up, takes the envelope from the nurse with slightly shaking hands, and reads the contents silently to himself. Dean is pinned in place, watching, filled with dread, and when Cas drops the letter to the bed and closes his eyes, Dean panics. The nurse sits down with Cas, while Dean hovers like a concerned parent, and talks him through what it all means, and by the time she leaves Cas is slumped against the pillows with a vacant look in his eyes, but he doesn't seem exactly depressed or hurt by the news. 

Later, they treat him with a strong dose of antibiotics and give him an injection of something which he squirms against and keens quietly, huddled against Dean's chest with strong arms cradling him. He's developed a strong and understandable fear of needles, one which Dean has begun to share, and he whispers comfort and promises into Castiel’s hair and the angel quietens in his arms, trusting. 

“You did great, baby,” Dean whispers as the nurse presses cotton wool to the dot of blood at Cas’ elbow. “I love you.”

Dean takes over from the nurse as she moves away to write notes on a clipboard, pressing the cotton wool down gently to soak up the small amount of blood and kisses Cas on the forehead. He's surprised and definitely pleased when Cas lifts his head and catches Dean’s lips in a quick, chaste kiss, one he immediately looks embarrassed about and hides his face, but Dean just smiles. The nurse reassures them both that he will be all right, that he shouldn't need any more treatment, and Dean really hopes he can believe her. Cas’ cheeks flush and he looks awkward and humiliated, but Dean just hugs him tighter and whispers to him that it will be fine. The angel swallows two tablets chased with water, and Dean climbs onto the bed to cuddle him while they watch some random sitcom on the TV bolted to the wall. It's funny enough, Dean supposes, and when he hears Cas laugh quietly next to him he starts to enjoy the show a little more, knowing that it's making Castiel smile.

When Cas finally drops off to sleep, Dean reaches over to grab his chart and read through it, a habit he's developed quickly over the past few ours, following on from visits from nurses and doctors. He doesn't care that it isn't for his eyes: he needs to know what's going on with Cas, every single detail. He flips to the second page, and the hasty handwritten note from that afternoon stares back at him and he has to swallow an audible sob where it states that he's tested positive for two infections likely caused by dirty needles and unprotected sex. 

Cas is sick. His Cas, his beautiful fallen angel, is sick, and Dean can barely cope with the knowledge. Cas seems to have taken it better than him, shrugging his shoulders and telling Dean it's just another thing to deal with. But for Dean, it's the last straw. He cradles Cas close to his chest, and tries not to think about the men who did this to Cas. The men who destroyed his life, all their lives. Dean knows some are dead, that some met their end the night they rescued the angel, but not all of them. And within Dean, a bloodlust like he's never felt before is starting to build, and it both calms and terrifies him. When Cas is better, _properly_ better and back to being the force of nature he once was, grace and all - because Dean hasn't given up on the idea that he can restore the grace ripped from Castiel’s body - he's going to go back there. Back to the filthy brothel masquerading as a hotel and he's going to tear apart every last living soul he can find. 

Cas stirs in his sleep. Dean kisses his forehead, and whispers into his hair, promising him the world and more. 

*

Dean can't stand it, he _can't_. He can't stand just standing out here while Cas is in there looking so unhappy and nervous and just scared. He's pacing back and forth outside Castiel's hospital room, casting death glares at the doctor sitting in the chair next to Cas, and wanting more than anything to storm in and put an end to their conversation. 

He knows what they're talking about; the doctor left Dean under no illusions as to who she is and what her intentions are with Cas. She's a specialist in trauma and mental health, and wants to get Cas talking about what's gone on. Dean initially balked and forbade it, but the doctor was stern and persuasive, and wasn't swayed by Dean's protestations about how much it would upset Cas and how little he wants to discuss anything.

"He doesn't want anyone else knowing anything," Dean had said, holding in a wave of panic on Cas' behalf. "I promised him nobody else would find out. And he won't tell you anyway, he's barely told me anything at all!"

"It's very likely, Dean, that he may open up more to me than to you. It may take a couple of conversations over time, but sometimes it's easier to talk to someone who isn't in your direct circle. He likely feels a lot of shame and humiliation about what has gone on, which will be affecting his decision to talk about it. He will probably find it easier - not easy, but easier - to open up to someone he doesn't know. Are you willing to at least let me try and speak with him?" 

And Dean concedes, grudgingly. He glowers at her as she walks into Castiel's room, as she smiles at him and introduces herself, then finds himself glaring at the door as it's closed gently in his face. He moves immediately to the window to watch, and his heart pounds as Cas looks suddenly wary and frightened at being alone in a room with a complete stranger, one he knows is intent on drawing facts from him that he desperately does not want to share. But, to his utter disbelief, Cas seems to relax somewhat and seems to be answering some of her questions, albeit with nods or shakes of his head coupled with very intense frowning at the sheets, but it's more than Dean has seen in weeks. Cas almost refuses to interact with anyone beyond Dean, Sam, and one nurse in particular he seems to have taken a liking to, so seeing him respond to someone new is…well, it's a breakthrough. Dean almost collapses in shock when Cas glances up at something the woman has said, and a small smile tugs at his lips. He looks…trusting. And if nothing else, Dean can work with trusting. Trust means opening up, and opening up means the road to healing may not be as long as they thought. 

He takes a seat in one of the plastic chairs across the hall, pulls out his phone to send Sam a text, and waits. 


	14. Chapter 14

A few days later, after hours of talking to doctors and accepting leaflets and recommendations of who, what and where to find appropriate help, Cas is released from hospital. He looks almost like his old self, and he even smiles properly at Dean when he pulls up in the Impala in the parking lot. The nurse at Cas’ side gives him a warm smile and wraps him in a one-armed hug, telling him he knows where they are if he needs them. Dean leans over and opens the door for him, and Cas slides into the passenger seat with a shy, relieved smile in Dean’s direction. As they pull away from the hospital and Dean finally, finally relaxes, he takes Castiel’s hand in his and they drive in silence for a little while, their clasped hands on Cas’ thigh and Dean’s thumb rubbing absent circles onto his skin.

Dean takes the long route home. He keeps stealing glances at the angel, _his_ angel, his _partner_ , and what he sees makes him feel like there could be a light at the end of this tunnel. Cas looks brighter than he has in weeks, and is staring out of the window with apparent fascination, watching the trees, buildings and fields go by. It's almost as though he's never seen them before. He lowers the window and lets the breeze drag through his hair, closing his eyes, and Dean allows himself to smile. Cas has chosen the music, and they're listening to some old Queen songs which Dean isn't a fan of, but whatever makes Cas happy makes him happy. Cas is dressed in jeans and a comfy, worn sweater of Dean’s, one which the hunter normally throws on when he's relaxing in the bunker, and he knows Cas likes it because it smells like him. The sleeves are pushes up a little, exposing the bones of his wrists, and just a hint of the fresh bandages covering his injuries. Last night, as Dean fell in and out of sleep, he had sensed Cas watching him but hadn't found the energy to open his eyes, and he was glad he hadn't. Cas had whispered to him in the dark, thinking him dead to the world, and the words that had left his lips still swim in Dean’s mind and make him dizzy with love for the fallen angel.

“I'll get better, Dean. I can do it, for you. I'll never make you worry like this again. I never knew what it was truly like to feel love before I fell. I thought I felt it, thought I knew what it was. But this…what I feel for you…I love you, Dean. I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you. I promise I will.”

Dean had struggled not to either burst out crying at the low, whispered words, or to leap up and grab Cas in a bear hug and never let go. He knew both those reactions would scare the angel, freak Cas out to the point he probably wouldn't say anything like that again, so he had kept his eyes tightly closed and waited until he heard Cas turn over and his breathing even out before he chanced a glance at his relaxed, sleeping partner. The hospital bed looked hard, the sheets scratchy and thin, but it didn't seem to bother Cas. He was sleeping more soundly than ever, and when he woke up it wasn't with a jolt and a cry, like most mornings were at the bunker. The time spent in the care of trained professionals has, much to Dean’s irritation and relief, helped Cas endlessly; Dean had only felt a _small_ twinge of guilt when he handed over a fake credit card to clear their bill.

He catches Cas fiddling with the plastic medical ID band encircling his wrist and gestures to him.

“Want me to take that off?”

“No, thanks Dean. It's fine.”

“You sure? You're not a patient any more, Cas. If you want a bracelet I'll buy you one; that doesn't make a great fashion accessory.”

“It doesn't?” Cas twists it again, and appears to be squinting at it. “But…I like it.”

“You do?” Dean is perplexed. “Why?”

“It…” Cas looks out of the window, stalling, then back at his wrist. “Says Winchester on it.”

And Dean has to swallow his words because he doesn't trust himself to speak. When he's sure his voice isn't going to waver too much, he nods and simply says ‘OK. The bracelet stays.’ Next to him, Cas smiles.

He pulls up in the parking lot of a White Castle, and as Cas tenses he reaches over and slides a hand to the back of his neck can playing with his hair to reassure him. Cas is wide-eyed and he twists his hands nervously, as Dean tells him he's only running in to get them take-out, because they haven't eaten since breakfast, and he knows Cas will be OK for just a minute. Cas watches him walk to the door and disappear inside, and doesn't take his eyes off the building until Dean is power-walking back to the car with two white bags in his hand and a giant grin on his face.

“Now, you wanna go back to the bunker and eat these with Sammy hovering like a vulture? Or you wanna park the car up and eat in peace?”

Cas snuffles a laugh and opts for the second choice, and soon they're pulling up in a secluded spot in the woods not far from the bunker, and Dean is killing the engine and tearing open one of the bags greedily.

He knows they should talk. The doctors have told him to keep Cas positive and to keep him talking, to stop him sinking back into himself and letting his intrusive thoughts take over, and Dean has sworn he would do that.So, while Dean unwraps Cas’ burger for him before delving into his own, he thinks long and hard about how he can stick to his promise and keep his angel focused and stop him slipping away. He has a few ideas; he just needs to pick his starting point.

Then, Cas shocks him to his core by taking the decision from him completely.

“It sometimes never felt quite real, you know?” Cas’ voice is so quiet that if the engine had been running Dean would have missed his words completely. The angel is systematically picking the pickles out of his burger and depositing them on Dean’s wrapper, not meeting the hunter’s eyes. Dean shifts in his seat so one leg is almost under him and he's facing Cas, silent and waiting to see if more is forthcoming. “It felt like a dream. A nightmare. And it was only in the mornings that I knew it was real, because everything hurt so much…waking up was always the worst part.”

Dean has no clue what could have prompted this revelation, but he senses that if he says anything Cas will clam up and the moment will be gone. So he stays silent, hands gripping the burger in his lap, forgotten, as Cas stares at his own food and continues.

“I just wanted to die, Dean. It was endless, relentless, and I had no way out. Half the time I could barely think, and when I could…everything was painful and terrifying, and I know that makes me weak, that I just endured it and didn't fight but…I didn't know how to. I wasn't used to my human body, I didn't know it's limits, and it's so…fragile. Pain is so amplified, and I felt so broken down all the time. Then…then there was Benny.”

Dean feels his jaw tighten in reaction. Who the fuck is Benny? Someone who hurt Cas? A name to add to the list of people he will eventually track down and rip apart?

“He was…he saved me, I guess. He had his own problems, but he was there for me. He made it seem less terrible, made me feel like if I endured it all, I could have a life. Of sorts. Not a good one, but more than what I was used to. He…took care of me.”

“How…how did he do that?” Dean can't help himself; his jealousy comes out in a growl and he's immediately contrite. He shouldn't be jealous of the only person Cas felt he could turn to during the worst moments of his life. Cas turns wide, Bambi eyes on him and for a second he looks unsettled.

“Does it matter? He was all I had, Dean. The only person I could trust. Does it matter what happened between us?”

Dean supposes it doesn't. He takes a mouthful of his burger to distract him, but his appetite is entirely gone. It makes him feel nauseous and he dumps it in the wrapper as Cas picks at his, and carries on softly.

“I didn't believe you'd come. And when you did…I didn't want to believe it, because I didn't want to wake up to reality and find I'd just been in some extended hallucination. When you found me…I was being…punished.” Cas’ voice cracks on the last word and Dean’s stomach lurches. “For something I didn't do, but it doesn't matter either way. And I thought I'd die like that. I had resigned myself to it. When you came, I didn't feel like I deserved to be rescued. I'd sunk so low…done so many terrible things…”

Dean takes a chance and reaches for Cas hand, his thumb tracing the plastic hospital bracelet. The angel’s eyes follow his movement, and it seems to ground him somewhat. Dean knows he shouldn't push, knows he should ask, but at the same time it may be his only chance. Cas may never talk about this again after today.

“What did you do, Cas?” His voice is soft, open, and Cas shudders. He grips Dean’s hand hard enough to bruise.

“We…we had to earn our keep. He had friends - _clients_ \- who would pay him a certain amount to…spend time with us. Sometimes at the hotel, sometimes elsewhere. And we had to…to…” Cas chokes, unable to continue, and Dean shushes him softly, using his other hand to stroke Cas’ forehead under the pretence of pushing his hair off his face. “Then there was the club. I was doing OK…he…he liked me, said I was doing well, so he took me to the club where there were other clients, but it wasn't as bad. I was _out_. I was his favourite,” and at that moment, Dean swears an almost wistful tone enters Castiel’s voice, and his eyes definitely mist up. Dean’s grip becomes painful, but Cas doesn't push him away. “And I fucked that up too. I fuck everything up. I'm not made to be a human, and I know it now; that's why I…I tried to…”

He gestures to his forearm, a wild note to his voice and Dean turns him so their eyes can meet.

“You don't fuck anything up, Cas. What they made you do…you had to do it to survive. And you did. You made it home, where you belong. And that means something, do you get that?”

Cas nods, clearly unable to speak any more, his eyes sparkling and dark, but Dean knows he's understood. He crooks a finger under Cas’ chin and leans in slowly, giving the angel plenty of time to pull away if he wants to.

“I love you, Cas. So much. No matter what you've done, no matter what's been done to you; I'll love you for always.”

Cas closes his eyes and Dean kisses him. He feels Cas’ fingers close around his own wrist, around the plastic band with ‘Castiel Winchester’ on it, and knows they'll be all right. That sometimes the reason it hurts so much is that you can really appreciate the happiness when it comes. And by God, does he appreciate every second with his angel, and even with their lives shaken and in the process of being rebuilt, he doesn't remember feeling happiness like that. It's deep, soul deep, and warms every inch of him right to his heart, where he's been cold and withdrawn for so long.


	15. Chapter 15

“Cas?”

 

Dean wanders curiously into the kitchen, following his nose. Something smells amazing, and since Sam is currently holed up in the library researching some complex hex that they're interested in cracking, it only leaves one person to be rattling about in the kitchen. His lover. His everything. 

And they are lovers, once again. Last night, something happened between them, something Dean never thought possible in more ways than one, especially not so soon after Cas being released from hospital, barely a week after sharing such intimate details with Dean. But it's like something has changed in Cas after that conversation. He seems lighter somehow, so close to being back to his usual self. He still withdraws a lot, still jumps at loud noises and sudden physical contact, and the nightmares still come. But there's colour in his cheeks and a light in his eyes that Dean never thought he would see again. He's taking more care with his appearance, and doesn't look as dishevelled and scruffy as had become normal for him. And he's showering less which, after the panic attack leading to his hospital stay, Dean can only think is a good thing. The plastic wristband is gone - Dean suspects Cas still has it somewhere in his room - but Dean has given Cas something better. Something much better. 

_**The previous evening…** _

Cas comes to sleep in his bed as always, cuddling up next to Dean and kissing him goodnight shakily, clearly nervous and wanting something, something Dean doesn't catch on to at first. Cas is fully clothed in pyjama pants and his favourite Henley, and carefully takes Dean’s hand and slides it slowly up his own stomach, under his shirt, all the while looking deeply into Dean’s eyes and trying to keep the tremors at bay. Dean just watches, incredulous but so, so awed by his brave angel, and barely daring to hope at the direction this is going in. 

“Dean…I want you to…I want you to touch me. If, if you want to, that is. You don't have to. It's OK if you don't, I don't mind, I just-” 

Dean cuts Cas off with a sweet, chaste kiss but slowly slides his hand around to fit snugly at the angel’s waist and pulls them closer together. Lying there, on their sides with entangled legs and chests almost touching, Dean swears it feels like old times. That all the violence and the pain has never happened. Cas is looking at him with a strange mixture of desire and fear, and Dean knows why the fear is there. Fear of being touched again intimately, for sure. Fear of being vulnerable to another person again, certainly. Fear of flashbacks consuming him, absolutely. But also fear of rejection, and Dean can't let that one linger for longer than it has to. He kisses Cas again, and it's still sweet but his tongue nips out to brush Cas’ lower lip and the angel quivers, his hands fisting in Dean’s shirt. 

Dean strips the angel slowly, kissing every inch of Castiel’s skin  sits revealed. He runs his mouth over Cas’ scars, kisses his hipbones and takes it all so slowly, quietly fearful of scaring him. But Cas responds with encouraging sounds and gentle touches, despite his quiet tremors, and soon they're lying entwined again, Dean beneath Cas so the angel feels in control, and they're both stripped bare. 

“What do you want, Cas?” Dean’s kisses are still sweet and gentle, but there's an indescribable heat building behind them, a heat that is further enhanced by the firm press of Castiel’s erection against his own. It's taking all his self-control not to thrust up, seeking friction and pleasure, for he knows Cas needs to take the lead on this. It needs to be him who makes the moves, who guides Dean to do exactly what he craves. 

But he needn't worry. Cas breathes into his mouth, hot and sweet and panting with eyes closed, his hands on Dean’s hips, and whispers into his parted lips:

“ _Everything_.”

*

When they regretfully pull apart later, hours later, when they're both exhausted and sweat-drenched and sated, Dean cleans them both up gently. He's kissing Cas as much as he can between his movements, as he fights back a sudden wave of inexplicable tears brought on by a rush of post-orgasmic emotion. Cas trusts him, trusted him enough to be with him again, and Dean feels humbled and awed at that fact. He tosses the damp washcloth aside, and considers something. Making a decision, one which was surprisingly easy to make, he sits next to his angel on the bed, Cas wrapped in the sheets and Dean naked on top of them, and tilts Cas’ chin up with a crooked finger under it. 

“I love you Cas, you know that. You do know that, right?”

Cas nods, tries to duck his head but Dean coaxes him to keep their gaze. 

“You're getting stronger every day. Hell, I see glimpses of your old self all the time these days. You were never weak, Cas, you just lost your way and I…I started it all. No, don't argue with me, let me be the one to carry this burden, because it's mine to bear. You can blame it on me, Cas, all of it, because it's my fault. I never should have asked you to leave without making sure you'd be OK. And I never should have waited this long to tell you that.” Dean feels hot, flushed, and his eyes are burning. He needs to do this now before he gets too emotional and too lost in his words and chickens out. 

“I…” Dean rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “I got you something. If you hate it, just tell me. But if you don't…well, I really hope you don't.” 

Dean reaches over into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, discarded earlier on the chair by the bed, and pulls out something small, something that glints in the lamplight, and Cas freezes. It's a ring. 

“This is…I wanted to…” Dean turns the thick silver band over in his hands and finally, finally looks up to meet Castiel’s wide, disbelieving eyes. “I'm not proposing, Cas, nothing like that. Not that I don't want to, God, I would love to hear you say yes, but we’re not in that place yet. And maybe you'll never be ready, after everything that's gone on, I don't know. I remember what you said in the hospital, Cas, when I said I'd pretended to be your husband. And I'm not going to forget that in a hurry because it's all I've thought about since. Being married to you would be a dream come true, and I hope we get there. Some day. But, now, right now, I hate the idea of you being so down on yourself, that you can't see the good in you, that you can't see what I see. And I know you sometimes forget how much I love you and how much you mean to me. So I wanted to give you something to remind you. I wanted you to wear this, and every time you look at it to remember that you're loved, and that as long as I'm around I'll never let anyone hurt you again.”

“D-Dean…” Cas can barely choke out a single word. He's overwhelmed by so many human emotions he's never felt before, all of them building to a heady mix of love and adoration.

Dean takes Castiel’s shaking hand in his, and for a moment he's stuck. He doesn't know which finger to put it on. He knows which one he wants to put it on: Cas’ ring finger has been bare ever since he took off Jimmy Novak’s wedding band and hid it away safely, and Dean badly wants to see his ring glinting in its place. But he's so unsure, so he goes for the safer option of Cas’ middle finger, and is about to slide it on when Cas’ other hand comes up to clasp his with only a slight tremor now. He looks up, into an ocean of blue and tears are dancing in his angel’s eyes. 

“Dean…” Cas’ voice is choked, and for a moment panic flares in the hunter. Cas is changing his mind… “I think…I think it goes on that finger.”

And the angel indicates his ring finger, where a wedding band should go, and Dean exhales in a slightly watery sigh of relief. With mounting confidence and resolve, he slides the ring onto Castiel's finger and for a second they both just stare at it. Then, Dean leans forward and cups Cas’ jaw with both hands. 

“Remember. Every time you look at it: you're loved. You're wanted. You're strong. And in my eyes, you're perfect.”

He kisses Cas, and they both laugh tearfully into each other's mouths as Cas whispers his thanks and Dean shushes him with gentle presses of his lips and strokes to Cas’ face and hair. 

When Sam comes looking for them the next morning, he finds them both asleep on the sofa, Castiel cradling Dean against his side and a very distinctive silver band glinting on Cas’ left hand. He can't help but allow himself a triumphant smile. He knew Dean would pluck up the courage to give it to Cas, and he knew Cas wouldn't reject it. It's something small, something barely visible to anyone but them, but it means so much to them both that they may as well have tattooed each others names across their foreheads. His brother deserves happiness, and Cas deserves Dean. They belong together. Sam shakes his brother gently to rouse him, to tell him it's time for breakfast, but Dean just snuggles closer into his angel’s side and murmurs ‘’m good here, Sammy’ and that's that. 

As Sam retreats, he catches a glimpse of glittering blue in the dim light, and meets the eyes of the damaged, healing angel. Cas smiles at him, and with that Sam knows they will all be all right in the end. It just might take a little while. 

He closes the door and leaves them to doze in the early morning calm, wanders down the hall to the kitchen, and cracks open the fridge to rummage for breakfast, enjoying the peace that has descended on the bunker. 

But in true Winchester style, that peace doesn't last very long. 


	16. Chapter 16

The next three weeks pass with relative ease. Cas and Dean go out together a lot more, on trips to the grocery store, or just out for aimless drives so they can get some fresh air and some space outside the bunker. They eat lunch at diners, and once or twice Dean takes Cas out in the evenings for dinner and a drink, and Cas relaxes into the experiences more every day.

  
He's not back to the person he was before _everything_ happened, he never will be that person again, but he's in that vicinity. Sometimes he lies awake at night in Dean’s arms, long after the hunter has drifted off to sleep, and thinks about Benny. Wonders where he is, if he's doing OK, if he's even alive. He hopes he is. And he knows they'll see each other again someday; something in his very-human heart tells him so. He always wakes with a jolt, automatically assessing his body within seconds for any injuries. He traces the scars on his skin, remembering, and trying to lay those memories to rest. Dean says he killed a man in the room with him _that day_ , and from the description it sounds very much like his handler. As much as Cas would have liked the satisfaction of killing the man, he's glad to think he's no longer walking the earth, causing harm to others.

Dean looks after him in a way he never has before. He makes all of Cas’ favourite meals, stands beside him in the kitchen and reaches him how, humours him when his best attempts turn out terrible, and praises him when he does it right. Sam helps, telling Cas he will be a better cook than Dean one day, and Cas ducks his head and smiles at that. Sam takes Cas to the library and they check out a huge pile of books to keep the fallen angel occupied.

Cas gets better. Talks more. Smiles more. Is still reserved and shy, nervous, jumpy at loud noises or when he's startled, but recovers quicker and is losing the dark, haunted look in his eyes. The intimacy with Dean helps; they touch each other constantly, cuddle on the sofa in the evenings, and at night Dean spreads Cas out in bed and worships every inch of his skin with lips and sure hands. Sometimes it turns sexual, but most nights it doesn't; they both simply enjoy the easy closeness and the feeling of skin on skin. They're happy, together.

But it's one idle Tuesday night, warm and breezy and the air sweet-tasting, when it happens.

*

Sam and Dean are playing cards, and Cas is watching quietly, distracted by a book he's reading. He finishes the last page and closes it, stretching his arms above his head and realising he's still dressed in his jeans and suit jacket from when he and Dean had been out earlier to get something to eat. Dean’s arched eyebrow of appreciation when Cas had shown up looking smartly-dressed and smiling shyly has been priceless. Cas was surprised they had made it to dinner, with the passion that ignited between them at Dean’s hello kiss. Somehow, they had kept themselves controlled enough to have a pleasant meal together, complete with wine and dessert - pie, of course - and they make it all the way back to the Impala (and manage to drive somewhere secluded away from the main road) before Dean had dragged Cas on top of him and they had given in to their desires for each other. Now, Cas considers that he should probably take a shower and that Dean should ideally do the same.

He shelves his book and wanders off down the hall, listening fondly to the brothers bickering. In Dean’s room - their room really, since Cas can't remember the last time he slept in his own bed - he rifles through drawers absently, searching for his favourite sweater which he seems to have misplaced. Not finding it in his drawers, he turns to Dean’s, wondering if it got mixed up in his laundry by mistake. He finds it, pulls it out and lifts it to his face to inhale the scent of Dean all over it, closes his eyes for a beat, and smiles fondly. He decides to steal one of Dean’s t-shirts to wear as well, and rummages in the drawer for a moment longer.

Something silvery glints, buried deep in the bottom, and Cas fingers it curiously before gripping it and pulling it out, and a wave of memory and nostalgia hits him with such intensity that he collapses onto the bed.

It's his old angel blade.

*

The Winchesters finish their card game and start another, waiting for Cas to finish up in the shower, not expecting to be disturbed when a noise rips through the easy silence. A crash from the top of the stairs brings Sam and Dean to their feet instantly, on guard and reaching for their weapons just as someone on the opposite side of the main door knocks on it slowly. It's not a pleasant knock; it's menacing and holds the promise of a threat. Dean’s gun materialises in his hands seemingly from nowhere and he snaps the safety off, advancing towards the stairs.

“Who's there?”

His voice echoes through the bunker, low and deep, and Sam follows him, gun raised just behind Dean’s left shoulder. There's a tense, loaded silence in which neither brother moves - then a ear-splitting crash raids the air and they both duck and cover their heads as the door slams onwards, splintering off its hinges and crashing down over the railings to splinter on the ground in front of them in fragments of twisted metal. Covering his head with his hands, gun still trained on the now-gaping hole that was moments ago their secure barrier to the outside world, Dean peers through his fingers to see an ethereal blue glow atop the staircase, then the sound of footsteps as someone descends.

A man in a dark jacket over a white t-shirt, slicked dark hair and a mean expression makes it to the bottom of the stairs without being challenged. The silver blade gleaming in his hand is a dead giveaway as to who he might be, and Dean swallows audibly at the thought of who he's looking for. The hand holding the gun shudders, and he advances towards the stranger.

“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you want?”

The man - a fallen angel, by Dean’s assumption - says nothing. He walks slowly around Dean, holding his gaze coolly and smirks. The silver of the angel blade in his hand glints off the bunker’s lighting, and he raises it almost curiously.

“You must be Dean. And Sam,” It’s a statement, not a question. Dean aims the gun at his heart. “Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you. My name is Theo.”

“I don't give a fuck what your name is.” Dean’s voice is strong and level, although he's quaking inside. This man, Theo, he's here for someone. And Dean is sure he knows who. “You don't walk into someone's home uninvited, you piece of shit. Leave. Before we make you.”

Theo smiles, and it isn't pleasant. He advances towards Dean, and for a moment the hunter is distracted by something. A movement, way behind Theo down the corridor. Another figure, dark-haired in a dark jacket, clutching something silvery. The momentary lapse in concentration is all Theo needs to slam Dean’s arm sideways so his wrist collides with a pillar and the gun falls from his hand to the floor.

Before Sam can move or even utter a sound, the angel blade is up and pressing into the skin of his chest through his shirt, and Dean’s breath hitches. The weapon could gut him with no effort at all, and he has a feeling the man in front of him wouldn't think twice about doing it. The figure behind Theo is gone, Dean wonders if he imagined it, and all his attention focused back on the angel in front of him, the angel on a mission. A mission Dean can imagine all too well. Cas… Cas needs to get to safety.

But before he can think, can process what's happening, Theo presses the tip of the angel blade directly over Dean’s heart, and his voice is low and loaded with menace. Dean forgets how to breathe and hears Sam choke a little behind him.

“Now. I'll only ask once. Where is Castiel?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a short chapter. More to come in the next one :)  
> And thanks to everyone who sent luck and love over on Rise and Shine (my other fic), you guys are the best <3


	17. Chapter 17

Dean groans, his first taste of consciousness painful, and he quirks a hand to the back of his head, feeling his fingers slick with blood. Someone is next to him, calling his name and helping him into a sitting position, and judging by the blurry outline of floppy hair and wide eyes, it's Sam leaning over him. Dean’s vision clears, and he somehow manages to sit up, and the first thing his senses register is the smell of burnt flesh. Sam’s eyes are wide, and Dean cannot read the emotions reflected there. Horror, awe, concern…is that relief?

“Wh-what happened?”

“Theo hit you. Knocked you clean out. He was an _angel_ , Dean. He came for…Dean…Cas… he's…”

Sam's voice is thick and trembling, and Dean casts about wildly for his angel, fearing the worst. Theo, if Theo got to him… if he _hurt_ Cas…

Then his gaze lands on someone hunched on the floor a few feet away and his stomach knots. It's Cas. His angel. Cas is on his knees, hands braced on the floor in front of him, his head bowed and shoulders shaking. Blood splatters the open collar of his shirt and streaks the floor in front of him, and a bloodied angel blade is inches from his fingers. Dean tries to stagger up to reach him, but Sam’s firm hands on his shoulders pull him back and for a moment he doesn't understand why.

Then he sees the body. Collapsed against the wall, eyes burned out and mouth frozen in a silent cry, Theo looks exactly like his life was taken, ripped from him, by none other than an angel. Dean freezes, as comprehension begins to dawn, and his gaze moves slowly to Cas, to the slant of his shoulders, to the lack of tremors in his hands, to the way his breathing is low and deep and even…

Then Cas looks up, straight at Dean, and Dean feels his heart skip a beat or five; he unconsciously shuffles back a foot, closer to Sam. Castiel looks different. Exactly the same, but totally different all at once. His hair is thick and shiny again, his body firm and toned beneath the dark suit, and his eyes glow so blue that Dean has to squint to look directly at him. The look on his lover’s face…

Cas has his grace back.

And, for the first time ever, Dean is afraid of him.

*

Cas stands, slowly, almost unsteadily, staring down at his hands. When he looks up again, his eyes don't glow quite as blue as before, but there's something different there. A power, simmering just below the surface, restrained but only barely. It's familiar, should be comforting, but Dean feels chills spider down his spine at the expression on Castiel’s face. It's shocked, stunned, and dangerous, all in one. He's breathing hard through his nose, teeth gritted, as though he's trying to reign himself in, keep himself in control. Dean doesn't miss the tremor in his hands as he clenches and unclenches his fists. His eyes lock with Dean’s, registering him for the first time properly, and that familiar concerned head-tilt and frown appear immediately.

“Dean? Dean!”

Cas crashes to his knees in front of his lover, but is brought up short when Dean scoots back a foot and holds up a hand warily.

“Cas…you…are you?”

Cas’ cool fingers close around Dean’s outstretched wrist, and he lifts his other hand to the hunter’s forehead, with an almost curious expression on his face, entwined with concern. Two fingers press to his forehead, then Dean feels a _rush_ of cool energy sweep through him and suddenly the ache in his head is gone and his vision is completely clear. He's staring into the sparkling blue eyes of his angel, and for a moment they share a breath without moving.

Then Dean is up, on his feet, pushing Cas backwards and wrenching his suit jacket from his shoulders, ignoring Sam’s stuttered protest from behind with grim determination. He knows what he’ll find, but he needs to see it himself. Needs the visual confirmation. Needs to _know_. Cas stands with his hands on Dean’s hips, letting himself be turned this way and that as Dean drags his shirt up to reveal a smooth expanse of lightly-muscled abs, free of scars and no longer showcasing sharp hipbones or the outline of his ribs, just the sensual V of his hip flexors disappearing beneath the line of his jeans. The shirt sleeves are next, pushed up roughly as Dean searches for track marks. Track marks which are no longer there. A quick glance up at his lover’s face tells Dean that Cas is as overwhelmed as he is. They had both become used to the scars on Castiel’s forearms, the constant reminder of what he had been through, but now that his skin is washed clean…everything feels different. Renewed. _Stronger_. There's an energy coming off Cas that makes Dean’s head spin, and he grips the angel’s hands tight enough to bruise, and his voice shakes a little when he speaks.

“What the hell happened?” He casts a glance at the burned-out body against the wall. “Cas, how did this happen? You're…you're back…” He lifts a hand and brushes Cas’ messy hair off his forehead. Even Castiel’s _skin_ feels different.

“I had to, Dean.” His eyes are wide and round and worried. “He was going to hurt you. Hurt Sam, hurt _me_. I can’t protect you if I’m…I didn't have a choice-”

“I know.” Dean clasps both Castiel’s hands in his, pulls them close to his chest, pulls Cas closer. “I _know_.” Their eyes lock, searching each other out, and Cas visibly relaxes a minute amount. “But what happened, I don’t remember…”

It’s Sam who speaks, looking shaken but steady, running a hand through his hair. “He was focused on you, asking you where Cas was. He was behind, in the shadows, and I…”

“Sam distracted him,” Cas continues deftly, throwing an appreciative glance in the older Winchester’s direction. “ Threw a bluff, caught his attention, drew him away from you just for a second. And it gave me the chance to grab him, but not before he threw you against the wall and you blacked out. When I saw him do that to you I thought…I thought you were really hurt, I thought you were _dead_ , and I just saw red. I didn’t think I had it in me, to go for him, to drag him away from you, but when I thought you were…” Cas flushes, just a little smudge of pink on his cheeks, and Dean has to resist the urge to kiss it away. “I took his grace. I’m not proud of it. I didn’t want to hurt him, but he left me no choice. And now…now an angel’s dead, and-“

“And you got your mojo back.” Dean does kiss him then, a soft brush of lips, and Cas’ eyes flutter closed. “If it’s a choice between you and him…I’d rather have you. Especially mojo’d up. You did what you had to, we both know that.”

“There will be others. Other angels, looking for Theo, looking for _me…_ ”

“And we’ll deal with them. Like we always have, like we always will.” Dean quirks his lips and Cas returns the small smile, eyes wary but genuine in their trust inn Dean. He nods, just once.

Sam advances towards them slowly, eyeing Castiel’s smooth forearms with a strange, awed expression on his face. “So you’re…better? Back to the old Cas? Good as new...or as close as?”

And Cas smiles at this, his hands clasped in Dean’s, and it’s the warmest smile they can remember seeing for years. “As close as. I’m back. Thanks to you, thanks to both of you. You're the reason I'm still here, you're the reason for everything.” His eyes cloud, just for a second, then a determination settles over him and his eyes grow flinty and hard. “And I have work to do.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'm 10% happy with this, but I did my best...! BAMF Cas is back in town.

"Shit. _Shit_!"

"Dean? Where the hell is he?" Sam pushes past his brother to see something he never thought he would see with Dean standing by his side: an empty space where the Impala should be, and the garage door standing wide open. "Oh, shit."

"Three guesses as to where he's gone."

The brother's eyes lock onto each others, green to hazel, and they both know the answer.

"Reckon you can find your way back there?"

"Oh yes." Dean's frown is deep, and his jaw firmly set. "That was one journey I'm not going to forget in a hurry." He gestures to the nearest car. "You get the keys. I'll get the guns. And if he damages that car,” Dean sets his jaw. “I'll kill him.”

*

_A few hours earlier…_

Dean, shakily, manages to keep Castiel in the bunker. The angel is outwardly calm and reasonable, but inside the brothers can sense a burning anger, one which builds rapidly and is going to overtake Castiel if they don't intervene.

“I need to go back,” he keeps saying, brows furrows and hands clenched into tight, painful-looking fists. “You don't understand. I have to go back.”

“Oh believe me, Cas,” Dean finishes wrapping Theo’s body in a tarp and stands up with a grimace. “We understand. You need to go gank those suckers and make them suffer in the process. We get it. And we’re on board, trust me. But just give yourself time to breathe.”

“I've _had_ time, Dean!” Cas rakes distressed hands through his hair. “And with every hour that passes, they could be…Benny could be…” He cuts himself off, and Dean has to press down a jolt of fiery jealousy. Benny. The guy who had comforted Castiel, helped him through his hell. Of course Cas still thinks of him, worries about him. Of course he wants to go to him. Doesn't mean Dean has to be overly thrilled at the idea.

He mentally berates himself. Cas loves _him._ Wears _his_ ring. Wants to be with _him_. Any feelings he has for Benny surely won't come close enough to touch the feelings he has for Dean. Or at least, Dean hopes they won't. He can't imagine the moments this Benny has shared with his angel, doesn't want to. But he knows they were intimate, passionate, knows they guided each other through their darkest moments, and a bond like that doesn't come cheap. Bonds like that are well-worn and difficult to break. Dean should know: his bond with Cas was ignited in exactly the same way.

He hefts the body up the stairs with Sam’s help; Cas stands, distracted, staring into space. He's still bloodied and the angel blade is now stashed safely away in his bedroom, along with Theo’s.

At least, Dean thought it was. In hindsight, leaving an angry angel alone when he just got his grace back and has a score to settle wasn't the wisest idea they ever had.

*

_Present…_

Castiel stands alone on the pavement, just outside of the circle of light cast by a street lamp, hidden in darkness and shadow. With the tan trench coat Dean bought for him in a thrift shop hugging his newly muscular frame, he almost feels like his old self, with one subtle difference: he's never felt bloodlust quite like this before. His collar and shirtcuffs are still splattered with the blood of the angel he killed, and he's drawn a few concerned looks from passers-by. But it's a bad neighbourhood - nobody is likely to cross him. He's staring up at a hotel which looks skin-crawlingly familiar but at the same time it's as though he's never seen the building before, never seen it quite in this light. It looks ambiguous and not threatening at all, and Cas supposes it's kept that way to lure naive and unsuspecting young men in to its clutches. It's how he was fooled, he remembers. Being too innocent and trusting the wrong people and the wrong circumstances. He's learned a lot since then.

He crosses the street, safe in the knowledge that he has his and Theo’s blades stashed about his person, and loiters by the door for a second, listening. Voices, muffled music, a pained cry. He inhaled deeply to steady his nerves, and his fingers bend and flex - adrenaline is raging through him and it's making him tremble. Grace or not, he still seems susceptible to those pesky human afflictions. He knows he shouldn't have run out on Dean and Sam, but it's too late for remorse. He needs to focus, and guilt is just a distraction. The Impala is intact and so is he. If they return like that, the boys should find nothing to bitch about.

He draws a deep breath, holds it until his chest feels tight, then opens the door and walks inside.

The hotel hasn't changed, but maybe he has. The smell is the first thing that assaults his senses. Did it always smell so _rancid_? Like rotten food and sweat, the sweet tang of vomit mixed with the pungent musk of sex. He recoils, skin crawling, and already feels dirtier. The hallway is blissfully empty, and he heads for an alcove in relative seclusion in a shadowy corner. He's unlikely to be seen there, unless someone is looking; it's the ideal spot to stake out the place and see what's what. His heart aches to know if Benny is here, and he's not sure what answer he would prefer.

He watches a couple of people pass by, some he recognises and some he doesn't, but they're all henchmen of the man who abused him. None of the damaged young men he remembers are anywhere to be seen. Chilled, he heads for the stairs and works his way up. On the top floor, his renewed senses pick up a voice that's all too familiar, and he chokes back a moan of distress as memories hit him with such force he staggers against the wall for a second. The sound, that scuffle, is all it takes.

A door opens, hands fist in the fabric of his coat, and he's manhandled into a room he remembers too well; too bright, too sparse, and full of people he used to be so afraid of. As he steadies himself and stares them down one-by-one, he concludes that they've lost their threat. They're just pawns to him now, men with their days numbered, scraps of nothing he plans to dispatch within the hour. But one man stands out: long-haired and scrawny, with a nasty smile and a dangerous expression.

“You're back.” He's holding a knife, twirling it in one hand, and standing near the window with his hip leaning against the wall. His air is calm and expectant, almost as though he's been sitting waiting for Cas to come through the door. “Can't say I'm surprised. The most pathetic ones always come crawling back and expect to be welcomed with open arms.”

He pushes off the wall and approaches, a mean-looking smirk twisting his features, and Cas steels himself. Waits. And waits. He will not react, he tells himself. Not yet. Not yet.

“Oh, come now Clarence.” His old handler looks straggler than before, his grey eyes haunted and flinty. “You couldn't get it good enough on the street yourself, so you came crawling back. That it? Or did you come back for something more…personal?”

He motions with a bony hand, and Cas’ gaze is drawn to a man being dragged through the door, a man he knows all too well and all too intimately, and his heart shudders.

Benny’s eyes widen at the sight of him, and he twists away from the men gripping the back of his t-shirt to stand and stare at Cas as though he's looking at a spirit. His eyes roam over Castiel’s body, from his shoes right up to his dark hair that is no doubt shining under the striplights, and for a moment words fail him.

“Clarence? You…” Benny swallows audibly. “It's really you?”

He looks awful, Cas thinks with a wave of sorrow. Thinner than before and paler, the scars on his arms stark and sore-looking, and his eyes are shadowed. Bruises stain the corners of his mouth and he's nursing the remains of a black eye. He reaches out to his friend, but Benny is dragged away, across the room, and the door swings shut. Cas is surrounded. Ten men, he counts. He could take a hundred or more, but it's going to be harder now, with Benny here. He must protect his friend at all costs.

His handler stands across the room from Benny, Cas between them, and gestures with the knife in his hand.

“I think that's what you came back for. I think he fucked that sloppy hole of yours so well that you can't rest for thinking of him. You want to be in his arms again. Want him to ravage that body of yours again. Am I right?”

Benny tries to twist away, but is held fast by rough hands on his biceps. Cas has never seen him look so freaked.

“You're partly right. I am here for him.” Cas shifts imperceptibly closer to Benny, who tries to do the same but is held back. “But it's not just him I'm here for.” His voice is strong, a dangerously low pure, and he can see sparks of fear in the eyes of the men surrounding him. He knows he looks different. Confident. Powerful. And that scares men like this. He isn't the weak, sick innocent he was when they picked him up and preyed on him like vultures. Not that man any more. He looks his handler dead in the eye and doesn't flinch when the man licks his lips and they glisten, moist.

“I'm here for you.”

“Really,” the man is drawling, but it has a sharp edge to it. The sound of a man trying to hide his unease. “How flattering. Clarence, I'm touched. Benny. Come here.”

Benny passes close by Cas, so close Cas can smell the sweat from him, and his throat tightens. He can taste the man’s fear, and maybe that's what makes him do it. His arm moves without his consent, shooting out and gripping the man by the arm, twisting it and dragging him back until Benny stumbles and crashes to his knees. His old handler grits his teeth, and he hears the sound of a safety catch being snapped off one gun, then another, then a third. Benny is staring up at him in horror, frozen in place by the expression on the face of his old friend.

Cas looks around one final time. Meets the eyes of every man in the room. This is his chance, and he's going to take it.

“Every worst nightmare you've ever had?” He barely recognises his own voice. “You'd better pray they were dreams in disguise. Because what's coming is a million times worse.”

A flurry of movement. Muscles tensing. Men stepping forward. Benny flinching. Castiel’s handler baring his teeth at him. Cas blinking.

“Benny, shut your eyes,” Cas’ voice is barely above a whisper, a whisper quaking with restrained fury, and Benny cowers away from him.

“W-what?”

“Shut your eyes.”

When Benny still doesn't move, Cas lunges for him. Seeing movement in his peripheral vision, his hand comes across Benny’s face shielding his vision and simultaneously drags him across the floor to press at his side still down on his knees so Benny’s temple is against Cas’ thigh. Slowly, Castiel raises a hand and feels a familiar drag of power pulse through him as the closest man reaches for him, knife in hand. It starts in his chest, low, just beneath his heart, then ignites fire through his abdomen and thighs, soaring up his spine until his eyes glow blue and his palms radiate an energy he knows is nothing shy of a deadly force. Benny chokes at his feet, gripping Cas’ wrist, and Cas draws a breath in, holding it, then exhales pure, violent energy.

*

The topmost floor of the hotel is where Cas is, Dean is sure. Something in his gut tells him so. They're both out of the Impala and running across the street, but they know it's too late long before anything happens.

It starts slow, a glimmer of blue light from the windows. Then, as Sam and Dean crash to their knees, the hotel shudders and the windows shatter, glass sparkling out to land everywhere like a deadly snowfall, and a deep pulse of energy explodes from somewhere deep inside, blue quickly mounting to yellow then a pure, bright white, filling their every sense with awe and fear. Streetlamps shatter. The ground quakes. The sound of an angel's fury rings out for miles. Their eyes close against it, and they cower, stunned.

The silence that follows stretches on forever.


	19. Chapter 19

Benny and Cas stand alone amid shattered glass, broken furniture, the stench of burnt flesh, and the bodies of the men who had owned them for so long, staring into each other's eyes. Cas doesn't know what to say, but he fears he might collapse at any moment. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins only moments before has dissipated and he's dizzy now, thinks he might puke. Benny steadies his shoulder with a familiar, grounding hand but his fingers tremble just a little.

“Cher, what…what the hell did you _do_?”

“It's a long story…”

Cas can hear more people approaching, and seconds later four more men stream into the room with weapons raised, all coming up short when they see the bodies. Sprawled against the wall in a badly-formed circle, eyes burned out and flesh still steaming, mouths open in grotesque screams of shock… Cas supposes he understands why they pause. He draws both angel blades and at Benny’s questioning look he tosses one to him.

“How's your hand-to-hand combat?” Cas murmurs as the four men, freaked, lower their weapons with trembling hands and turn their gazes to the pair standing in the centre of the circle, unharmed and stony eyed. One starts to back away, and a snarl twists Benny’s features.

“Pretty good, cher. I got a score to settle.”

*

Outside in the alley, there’s a chill in the air and it tastes like rain. Cas and Benny tumble together out of the hotel, panting, and Benny shepherds a small group of quivering young men to an alcove out of the way. Cas can see two men approaching and feels every muscle in his body go rigid, before he relaxes and lets out a sigh of relief. It's Sam and Dean, and as they approach Dean gestures questioningly to him, gun raised and covering the door the just came out of. Cas nods in response. It's done. It's over. They're all right. Before he can go to Dean, Benny’s gentle hand takes his arm and as though magnetised, he turns to his friend and falls into an embrace.

“So few of them…of _us_ left…” He chances a look at the others, huddling close and watching him warily. He doesn't remember any of them, but feels a bond of solidarity with them all that he knows Benny does too. They're dressed in the same attire he used to don: tight jeans, tight t-shirts, all of them too thin despite Cas laying his hands on each of them and healing their many injuries and curing their addictions one by one. They had been terrified, wouldn't look him in the eyes, but it was to be expected. Even Benny seemed in awe of him, and only just seemed to believe Cas when he told him who he truly was. There's one face he hasn't seen, and although he feels a swooping dread of certainty already, he asks anyway.

“Adam…?” The one word is a question, and Benny drops his chin, shaking his head.

“Went out one day and never came back. But we were all well informed on what happened to him. I reckon the boss knew what he did to you, sugar, and was biding his time. With you gone, he had nobody to take his bad temper out on. So he turned to Adam.” Benny follows Cas’ gaze. “And the rest…they started disappearing too. He only kept a handful of us after you went. I think he took it real personal, you know? You were his favourite. Always were.”

Cas shivers at the memory, and at the knowledge of Adam’s fate; he wouldn't wish that on anyone. Even the spiteful young man who had betrayed him. Adam didn't deserve to die. Cas should have got there quicker. When he looks up, Benny is staring at him with an odd expression on his face and a softness to his eyes that makes Cas shiver as he remembers. Remembers Benny’s kisses, his gentle touches and soulful whispering in his ear, remembers how he felt for the other man. Back then, he never thought he would see Dean again. But now, everything is different, and while he still harbours residual feelings for Benny, they don't come close to his bond with Dean. Benny is talking, and Cas snaps his attention back to him.

“You know, when you look at a thing of beauty a thousand times, you convince yourself you'll remember it forever.” Benny’s voice cracks a little on the last word. “But damn, if I hadn't started to forget just how beautiful your eyes are.”

Before Castiel can react, Benny has slid a hand to the back of his neck and pulled him close so their foreheads touch and they share a breath. Behind him somewhere, he hears Dean squawk indignantly but he can't bring himself to pull away just yet.

“I thought you were dead, cher. Why'd you come back?” Benny’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“I couldn't leave you here. And them…I knew they wouldn't stop. I knew someone had to intervene. And it had to be me.” Cas blinks away the sharp burn of tears. It’s all too much, too overwhelming. He’s dizzy with it all and grips Benny’s forearms to steady himself.

“You're a brave man, Clarence.” Benny’s breath is warm on Cas’ lips, the scent of him bringing back a myriad of memories; the strongest the ones of them spending hours in bed together while Benny did his best to make Cas feel better after his abuse. Rubbing his shoulders, covering his neck and face with gentle kisses, holding him while he shook and sobbed, and getting him another hit when he desperately needed it. Benny had saved him, in ways he would probably never realise. And now Cas has repaid the favour. “And thank you for coming back.”

“Cas.”

“What, sugar?”

“My name. It's Cas. Castiel. I don't know why I didn't tell you before.” Cas tries to smile. “I should have.”

Benny smiles then, before Cas can stop him, presses their lips together in a chaste kiss, one that goes on and on, and Cas can't seem to pull away from it. He definitely hears a noise of dissent from behind him, and hears a scuffle too, the sound of Sam holding his brother back. Benny tastes of salt and nicotine, and it’s devastatingly familiar. He lets the other man kiss him for just a moment longer, their mouths working against each other in an exchange of emotions too strong to put into words, then pulls back a moment later, with almost a twinge of regret. He stops Benny from leaning in again with a hand on his chest.

“I…I can't. I'm…I have someone.”

“Tall, hot and handsome, ten feet away and looks like he wants to kill me?”

Cas huffs out a giggle. “That's Dean.”

“Dean. Nice name.” Benny caresses Castiel’s cheek warmly, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of relief and sadness. “Does he take care of you, sugar?”

“He does.”

“Does he love you?”

“He does.”

“And you love him?”

In answer, Cas lifts his right hand and Benny catches sight of the silver band glinting there. “More than anything in the world.”

“Good, darlin’. I'm glad. You deserve happiness.”

Another kiss, this time to Castiel’s forehead, then Benny steps away just in time to hold out a hand to Dean as he breaks away from Sam and comes barrelling over to them. Before the hunters can do anything, Benny holds a hand out to Dean who skids to a halt and looks at it as though it's some sort of trick.

“Dean, Sam, this is Benny. He's my…my friend.” Cas tries to convey to Dean with his gaze that all he and Benny share now is friendship. That the past will stay in the past. And Dean must understand because the tension in his shoulders ebbs away, and he grips Benny’s outstretched hand and shakes it, looking him up and down as he does.

“You two sure took care of things in there. You could have waited, Cas,” Dean chides lightly. He knew his angel didn't need his help. But it would have been nice to run a few of the bastards through with a machete, just for old times sake. His relief at seeing Castiel in one piece overrides any genuine irritation at being left behind. It’s done. It’s finally over.

“He was still alive.” Cas murmurs, looking down at his hands. “And when I saw him…”

“Who? _Him_?” Dean stares, incredulous. “I thought I got him.”

“No. Another straggly haired asshole met his end with you, as I recall.” Benny reaches over and rubs Cas’ arm soothingly, a gesture not lost on the Winchesters. “But the ringleader…Clarence got him good. Gave him exactly what he deserved and more. Saved our lives. Saved every damn one of us.”

“Cas is the best,” Dean declares fiercely, also for his angel and sliding a possessive arm around his shoulders. When Cas looks up at him, it's through hazy, damp eyes and his smile is watery at best. Dean’s eyes shimmer questioningly. “Clarence?”

“You always taught me, Dean, don't give out your real name.” Cas focuses on his hands again. “I remember everything you taught me.”

Dean squeezes him close then, sensing Benny’s eyes on them seems to realise they need a minute and retreats. But only half a foot. He just _needs_ to be close to Cas right now. Something in the angel feels off; exhaustion is coming off him in waves and he looks pale and drawn. Benny’s voice is like rich chocolate, and as Dean appraises him he can see exactly why Cas fell for him. He's handsome, and has a gentle charisma that tells of how caring he will have been towards Cas. And the way he looks at him… if Dean didn't know better, he would call it love.

“You were the best thing in my life for a long time, sugar.” Benny draws Cas’ hand up and brushes a kiss to his knuckles. “Now you get to be my favourite memory. You take good care ‘o him,” he addresses Dean, and a look of understanding passes between them. “He's something special.”

Cas blushes, and moves unconsciously closer to Dean. “Where will you go?”

“Wherever I like, cher. World’s my oyster. But I might stick around for a bit,” Benny jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the small cluster of young man standing huddled together in the alley, watching them with hawk-like, nervous eyes. “Someone’s gotta help them find their wings. You take care, Clarence. Castiel. Cas.” He smiles, and Cas returns it with his blue eyes glistening, tears clinging to his dark lashes. “I'll see you again someday.”

“I'm counting on it.”

They watch as Benny walks over to the young men, and slings an arm around the shoulders of the nearest one. They walk together to the end of the alleyway, where Cas can see the dawn starting to peek into, and with a glance over his shoulder and a dip of his head, Benny is gone. And with him, the remnants of Castiel’s time as a human.

Choked up and not able to form words, he walks with Dean back to the Impala, the hunter’s arm securely around his waist. His forehead is kissed gruffly, and he slides into the passenger seat wordlessly. Sam climbs into the back and squeezes his shoulder in comfort, a gesture of solidarity and Cas reaches up to brush his fingers with his own. He rests his forehead against the cool pane of the window and watches the streets pass as the sun comes up, throwing everything into golden hues, as the sky turns a deep burnt orange before clearing to a beautiful blue not dissimilar to the eyes of an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go!


	20. Chapter 20

They let Cas go without a word when they get back to the bunker. The angel looks wrecked as he shrugs off his trench coat and just slings it on the back of a chair - a sure fire sign something is wrong. He doesn't meet the boys’ eyes, just mumbles something about being tired and vanishes down the hallway to his room, and they hear the door close quietly a minute later.

Sam pulls out a chair and sits down, accepting the beer Dean hands him. Dean loiters for less than a minute before following his lover, and Sam watches them go with consternation. He had hoped that finally killing the men who harmed him would be cathartic for Cas, but he had looked so despondent in the car and had answered questions with apologetic, almost whispered single words that Sam was starting to worry that Cas wasn't taking it so well. He hopes Dean is emotionally equipped to deal with what is sure to be a difficult conversation. He opens his laptop and tries to distract himself with a half-hearted search for a new case to pass the time.

“Cas?”

Dean knocks gently, but doesn't wait for a reply before pushing the door open. The lights are all off, and he doesn't want to scare Cas by turning them on so he squints until his eyes get used to the dimness. Cas is fully clothed, lying facedown on the bed with his head buried in his folded arms, and his shoulders are a firm line of tension. He doesn't flinch when Dean closes the door quietly behind him, nor when Dean sits tentatively on the side of the bed. He reaches out for Cas, to stroke his hair, but his hand pauses an inch from the angel.

“What you doing in here?”

He asks softly, not expecting a response. It's a valid question. Cas doesn't sleep in his own room any more, he sleeps in Dean’s. Has done for weeks. So he's probably seeking solitude, solitude that Dean just isn't willing to give him until they've talked. He needs to make sure his angel is all right. He tentatively lowers his hand to Cas’ dark head and, receiving no resistance, strokes his hair gently, carding his fingers through the soft strands.

“Can't believe you stole my car,” he murmurs, no ire at all in his voice, only gentle coaxing to get Cas to talk. It works.

“‘M sorry,” the angel’s voice is thick and muffled. “I had to. I didn't hurt her.”

Dean smiles at that; Cas knows how important Baby is to him, and treats her with so much respect. It's a mark of how much he must love Dean.

“I know.” Dean settles a bit more on the edge of the bed, more confident now that Cas isn't going to tell him to leave or shove him away. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Cas turns his head towards Dean and pillows his cheek on his forearm. His eyes are wet and glistening. “Just stay. Please.”

“Sure thing, baby.” Dean toes off his shoes and leans down to pull off Cas’. “Anything you need.” He swings his legs up onto the bed and lies down, and Cas turns to cuddle into his side. Dean’s arm holds him close, and they lie in comfortable quiet for a while, the only thing breaking the silence being the odd sniffle from Cas - and the cough as he tries to hide it. Dean waits for a time, then leans down and presses his lips to Cas’ forehead, then to his mouth as the angel tilts his head up for a kiss.

“Want me to help you relax?”

Cas eyes him wearily, wary of what Dean’s suggesting. “I'm not really in the mood for-”

“I know.” Dean silences him with a kiss. “I didn't mean that. Take off your shirt and pants and lie down on your front.”

Cas doesn't look much more trusting, but he obediently unbuttons his shirt and shimmies out of his jeans, tossing them on the floor instead of folding them neatly as he normally would. He turns to lie down on his stomach, same position as he was when Dean entered, head pillowed on his arms. Dean can't help but smile at the sight of his boyfriend’s orange underwear - he likes that Cas always wears brights under his clothes. Like a little hidden secret. He climbs onto the bed, now only in his t-shirt and boxers himself, and straddles the angel’s thighs. Cas tenses a little, turns his head.

“Dean, what are you-”

“Shh. Just trust me.” He presses a kiss to the angel’s spine, right between his shoulder blades. Cas is all lean planes of muscle now, honeyed silken skin, and he smells of cinnamon and watermelon, the way he always did before… _before_. Dean snags a tube of body lotion from the bedside table and squeezes a generous amount onto his hands. It smells like honey. “If you want me to stop, just say. I don't want to force this on you, but I think it might help.” He kisses the nape of Cas’ neck and feels him relax beneath him. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” Cas’ voice is muffled against his forearms again, and his shoulders aren't quite as tense as they were.

At the first touch of Dean’s palms to his shoulders, Cas goes rigid. It takes him a while to relax, as skilled hands slowly work the knots from his muscles, move in soothing strokes down his spine, massage the tension from the base of his back, then work back up so that firm thumbs can rub circles into the back of his neck. By that point, Cas is practically melted into a puddle beneath Dean’s thighs, sighing and making little mewling sounds of enjoyment. It’s far from sexual - the last thing either of them wants is to turn something soft and intimate into passion, not right now. The air is too loaded, Cas is too upset, and they have too much to talk about. But the sensual massage is just what they both needed to reconnect, and it’s helped ground Cas, bring him out of his head and reminded him how loved he is and how much they’ve been through together to get them to this point. There’s nothing they can’t handle.

Dean shuffles down a bit so he’s sitting just above Cas’ knees, and lies his body down on top of the angel, careful not to crush him, and kisses the back of Cas’ neck. He works his hands up into Castiel’s hair, touching and stroking, and he continues to caress Cas’ skin with his lips until the angel shifts, turning beneath him until they’re lying on their sides facing each other, legs entwined, and Dean’s hands cupping Cas’ jaw. Cas is choked up, tears clinging to his dark lashes, and Dean kisses them away as they fall onto his skin.

“It’s OK, Cas.” He murmurs, and his angel shudders and lets out a low cry of unhappiness that almost breaks Dean’s heart. He gathers Cas in his arms and pulls him close to his chest, rocking him a little like a child, and Cas clings, choking and starting to cry against his lover’s chest. “It’s all right. I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s all right.”

“Why me?” Cas snuffles a while later, still tearful and shaky but quieter, calm against Dean. He’s got his cheek pressed to Dean’s chest, enjoying the warmth of another human body, and he’s as close to the other man as possible, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Dean cringes, knowing exactly why Cas. Because he threw him out, that’s why. Something he’s going to spend the rest of his life making up for.

“I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”

“Why them? Why didn’t they make it out? Why didn’t I get there sooner? Why didn’t I do more?” Cas cuts himself off before the tears can start again, his voice thick and a few octaves lower. It sounds like his throat is hurting him. “Why do _I_ get to live and _they_ don't? They didn't deserve to die.” Dean knows the angel is referring to the countless other young men who had passed through the hands

“Cas, hey. That isn’t on you.” Dean murmurs gently into Cas’ hair, his heart aching for the angel. “Think of the people you did save. Benny, those other young men. They have their lives back now, because of you.”

“I should have gone sooner.”

“You were in no state to do that, Cas. Even with our help, it would have been too much. You did everything you could as soon as you were strong enough. You can't save everyone, baby. I know you try.” Dean kisses him and reaches down to drag the sheets up over them, feeling a chill in the air. They're both exhausted and need rest, although now that Cas has his grace back he might not need sleep as much as he once did.

“Benny said,” Cas coughs and tries again. “Benny said that they started disappearing after I left. The other…the other guys. That _he_ was pissed, after I left…because I was his favourite…and then the others started to vanish, that he _killed_ them, and maybe I should have _stayed_ and it wouldn't have happened…”

“No.” Dean sits up, turns Cas onto his back and pressed a finger to his lips. “No way. If he was going to kill them, he would have done it no matter what. Using you as an excuse, it's wrong. If you'd stayed, you might have…” Dean’s turn to cough. “He would have killed you too. And I can't live without you, angel. Those people back there, you saved them. You _saved_ them, Cas. You're a hero.”

Cas sniffles and cuddles into him again. His eyes are closing, and Dean lies down to pull him close. “It might take a while before I see it that way.”

“That's all right.”

Dean cradled the angel to him, and can feel Cas falling asleep in his arms. The day has drained him, mentally and physically, and renewed grace or not, he needs to recharge. As Cas’ breathing slowly evens out, Dean holds him closer and entwines their legs, feeling sleep tug at the edges of his own consciousness.

“I'll just make sure I remind you of it every day until you do.”

*

_One month later…_

“Cas?” Dean knocks awkwardly on the bedroom door, balancing two steaming cups of coffee in his hands, and seconds later the angel pulls it open looking disheveled and sleepy, rubbing his eyes with one hand and a perplexed expression on his face.

“Dean? What time is it?”

“Early. Here.” He thrusts a cup at Cas, who takes it and sips gratefully. He can practically see the caffeine igniting in the angel’s veins. On the bedside table, Cas’ phone flashes with a call.

“Hello? Hi,” Cas sits down on the edge of the bed, a smile spreading across his face, and Dean busies himself with pulling out clothes for the pair of them, stopping only to ruffle his lover’s hair or kiss his cheek. “Later. This evening? Where? All right. Can Dean and Sam come too?” Dean quirks an eyebrow, but he's sure he knows who the angel is talking to. “Great, OK. See you then. Bye, Benny.”

“He OK?” Dean tosses jeans and a plain t-shirt at Cas, pulling one over his head simultaneously.

“Fine. We’re seeing him for dinner later. He's passing through.”

“Sounds great.”

Cas stands up, and Dean helps him into his jeans, taking a little longer than necessary with pulling them up his thighs and making sure the zipper is done up properly. They share a slow kiss, chaste and void of any heat, but with the potential to turn passionate within a second or two. Cas whimpers into the mouth of his hunter, fisting his hands in Dean’s t-shirt.

“Do we have time…?”

“Sorry, baby.” Dean presses a final kiss to Cas’ parted lips and pulls away regretfully. “Sam’s found us a case, that's why I woke you up. Damn early bird wants to head out in an hour. I struck a deal: he makes us breakfast, we get our skates on and head out with him. Sounds like a wendigo, causing havoc, you up for a hunt?”

“Absolutely.”

Fully dressed, Cas leaves the bedroom with a low yelp as Dean slaps his ass appreciatively. He slings an arm around the angel’s shoulders, and they walk through the bunker together towards the kitchen, following the smell of bacon and waffles and more coffee, Cas’ hand sliding casually into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans., the ring on his finger catching a little on the seam, glinting in the light although neither of them notice.

They'll handle it. The wendigo, Sam’s too-weak coffee in the kitchen, the angels, Metatron, the hunting, the future. They're together, them and their home and Baby, and they'll handle it all. They always do.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have shed a tear or two when I got to the end of this chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who has been following, commenting, giving support, leaving kudos...you're all amazing and I love you so much <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> Customary tumblr plug: <http://coffeeandcas.tumblr.com>. Got a fluffy/angsty Destiel prompt? Send it to me and I'll do my best to fill it!


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